Miramar, a tiny ragged port town, is even smaller and more tawdry than Portobello. I make straight for the dock where I am immediately accosted by a man who hurries me to meet Angel, the captain of a cargo boat heading for Colombia. Angel names his price and the deal is done. We leave early tomorrow.
Or that’s the promise.
Leaving Miramar, the scene is something like this:
The truck load of chicken that has been delaying our departure finally shows up. Angel, Alfredo and Evelin, Alfredo’s child wife, are counting and weighing out the birds and then storing them on the deck of the boat in large polystyrene containers packed with ice.
Meanwhile a unholy screaming rises on the shore. Two men are wrestling live pigs out of the back of a truck. One man seizes the poor creature’s hind legs, the other, its ears and they bear the trashing animal to the water’s edge where they throw it into an open launch. The pig collects itself and the noise ceases but suddenly starts up again at the truck as the men grab another doomed beast.
A wheelbarrow of processed meat sits unattended. A dog slinks by.
A large launch with two big engines is being loaded to the brim with beer while a group of scantily clad young girls stand by encasing their mobile phones in condoms as protection against the elements while they wait to leave.
All the vessels gradually sink lower and lower in the water under the weight of their loads. The beer boat people sport gangster bling.
The wind is rising. Black clouds out to sea. I load my bike onto the tiny boat filed with all kinds of misgivings. The boat’s name is El Inesparado - the unexpected, the unhoped for.
A sudden influx of people on the wharf as rain starts to bucket down. Angel yells for my passport and I make my way back to shore to the policeman seated on a beer crate at his post under the rickety iron roof. A large ornate coffin now shares his space. Around us crowds of young people enter launches in the pouring rain somberly dressed, black garbage bags an incongruous part of their funeral attire. A shooting. Another story I’ll never know. More broken hearts.
The boats are loaded. We set off into the rain.
The boat has little grace. Fibre glass and plywood. A shambles of frayed ropes and plastic containers. Buckets and jerry cans – holding water, oil, petrol, diesel. Life jackets serve as seating or get stuffed into the gaps sawn out to provide windows in the plywood box that is the cabin. All the surfaces are sticky, oily, greasy. Poorly cured fibre glass, wet paint, split fuels.
Rain, wind, waves. A narrow passage through the breakers out of port. The boat wallows. It’s a bare 30 foot, loaded down with half a ton of chicken, slabs of bear and soft drinks, three crew, six passengers and their luggage.
The hot engine spews oily white smoke into the cabin. A constant roar.
A monologue in toothless mumbled Spanish of the Colombian docks and maritime world. Apollinaire, Poli, the old man is calm, smiling, garrulous. So unintelligible I can’t tell if he is somewhere on the path to dementia or simply old enough to have freed himself from any need to adhere to the social constraints of normal conversation. Stories emerge but not clearly. Seven years in a North Carolina jail. A boat load of cocaine intercepted off the Yucatan Peninsula by the US coast guard. This must have been 35 years ago or more. The wife and five children left behind in Cartagena.
The effrontery of heading out to sea in a listing, pitching, crumbling shell of fibre glass and rotting wood. The motor rumbles, splutters, roars. A smoking monster. Coughs. Dies. The boat adrift. The sway and slap of water now a real menace.
The engine sits in its greasy pit, hot and smoking. Alfredo stands in the bowels of the boat, a hellish underworld. Torch in mouth, a series of tools, black smears of oil and dirty grease on his gleaming brown skin. Exchanges between him and Angel are urgent and terse. The engine splutters into life and dies again. More terse instructions and requests.
On board the passengers lie in various poses of despair roused only by the need to vomit before subsiding again. People are afraid. The boat bobs purposely. The sun behind rushing nimbus is sinking leaving us in a deep grey gloom.
The ship at anchor rocks and heaves in complete blackness. Sickening lurches and sudden drops. The constant hiss spray slap a hostile force. The lucky passengers huddle in heaps on oily dirty pieces of foam that serve as mattresses. I lie directly on the a plywood bunk too short to stretch out on by at least a foot. The shivering spewing Mexican is outside on the deck in the rain wrapped in a tarpaulin.
As darkness covers the boat the binders on terror loosen and fray. Images, unbidden, rise and take an unwelcome hold. The plywood box suddenly resembles a coffin. The ill fitting home-made sliding doors imprison us. The wind rises. Lightening offers stark moments of illumination, unearthly mauve light, ozone crackle and zing. A sudden lunge and thud has Alfredo, Angel and me on our feet and on deck. Are we adrift in the seething writhing night?
But the beauty. Don’t forget the beauty of it all. The dolphin in the morning. The sea still choppy, wild and uncertain. Sudden gusts of wind.
The second night moored at a dock in Carti we spread out motley collection of mattresses across the concrete wharf. Our sleep is disturbed by drunks and squalls but contains less sheer terror than the night before. No unbidden images of thrashing desperately inside a wooden box filling with water. No warding off the idea of what that first lungful of water will feel like. Or more abstract horrors. Imagining myself a prisoner incarcerated with these eight people in that small space for a period of months or years and what our lives would become.
We are a fractious group. Mostly Colombians: Alfredo, the owner of the boat, Poli, the old man, his father, Angel the reluctant captain, with his shifty eyes. The passengers are Lucerna, a 58 year old woman returning home to Colombia after a visit to her daughter. She talks constantly, spreading discontent and malice. She delights in the misfortunes of others. She has two hefty suitcases filled with cosmetics that may not have made it through customs without question at an airport. Carti and Nino are a couple, young, good-looking, both with lazy eyes. Carti is dressed in shorts and a brief top with a purple shawl draped about her shoulders. She is sea sick almost as soon as we leave the port at Miramar and shivering with cold. Nino’s name is Jorge but his nickname suits him better – he is childish. The Mexican is in a state of paralytic terror and confusion. His is on his way to Colombia to meet his ‘wife’. It is unclear where he actually lives. He spent four years in the States – a sojourn interrupted when he attracted the attention of the law drink driving on New Year’s Day – an incident that revealed his lack of papers. He encountered the Colombiana in the States. Gabriel, another Colombian swaggers around the boat spouting his well-practiced machismo. He, like Lucerna, has a hefty bag full of goods – cheap shoes – to sell back home.
The archipelago is strung along the coast. Tiny castaway islands, waving coconut palms. The women wear traditional costume. Red headscarves with yellow and orange designs, bright tops with hand sewn appliqué of fantastic creatures, black sarongs with coloured motifs – mostly marine animals but some verging into abstraction and the occasional incongruous squirrel. Legs and arms ornamented with intricate rainbow beads. Gold through the septum. Black painted or tattooed design down the bridge of the nose, cheeks rouged high red. They studiously ignore outsiders with whom they have no business.
None of the islands have a source of water except that which comes directly from the sky. Plastic tanks line the edges of roofs catching precious raindrops.
Garbage everywhere. Plastic bags drift just under the surface of the water.
These ancient communities, exposed to all the elements, existing in a wash of wind water light. A shimmering inscrutable world. Listing fragile huts, palm fronds and bamboo. Other more ambitious structures of concrete and block seem all to stand half finished, abandoned, a jumble of cracking crumbling cement, a tangle of spikey exposed steel reo. Perhaps only the fragile can endure in this shifting mutable inchoate world. That and the plastic. What the boats are bringing these people is sugar, soft drinks, tinned food, disposable nappies.
A man paddles up to the boat. “What are you selling?” “Chicken.” “No water? No biscuits?” “No. Chicken. Soda.” He tries again. Asks Angel. “Water? Biscuits?” “No.” He paddles away.
My own supply of water is dwindling.
We dock at a pair islands linked by a ‘friendship’ bridge. Half the chicken gets wheel-barrowed to the freezer of the village shop and restaurant.
A large wooden cargo boat is moored on the other side of the wharf from El Inespardo and the crew greet Poli and Alfredo warmly. We bed down for the night on its more stable decks. In the darkness night rain lashes down again, the wind howls, and the boat pulls restlessly at its mooring. Morning brings no abatement to the storm and Alfredo tells us that there is no way we are going to set sail today. The passengers sit despondent and complaining. Everybody wants to be home in time for Christmas with their families.
Late in the afternoon Nino, with something like desperation, flags down a fast launch with an out board motor. Angel and Alfredo negotiate a deal to get us all to Obaldia that day but the captain refuses to take my bike and so I end up the sole remaining passenger of the good ship Inesparado.
Christmas Eve spent on the concrete wharf of another small Kuna isle. We emerge from El Inesperado after a long day – blessedly free of engine trouble – on the ocean. As we stagger onto the wharf, sailors from the large cargo boats we moor against hand us plates of food. Not spare food, but the rest of the food on the plates they are eating from, their own food. We must have looked hungry.
Christmas day. Set sail.
Have I done anything yet to describe the beauty and the grandeur of the scene? The mainland wreathed in cloud, the serried ranks of mountain receding, each ridge fringed by rising mist. Storm clouds sweep overhead. A sudden down pour – fat drops fall hissing through sunlight into emerald green sea, snatches of diffracted sunlight, patches of rainbow.
Dugout canoes with small sails swift and sure running far out to sea between islands. Sunlight bursts through cloud. Wind and wave, slap and sway. Reefs and shoals. Breakers along a long offshore reef. Who know how to navigate all this?
Poli hands me coffee and than later a plate of rice and patacones left over from yesterday’s donated food. I sit against the cabin, Alfredo standing on the bow looking out for rocks and shallows. Still grey water. Dull silver in early morning light.
The engine coughs and dies again. Alfredo enters the pit in the cabin that I am starting to think of as the Mouth of the Inferno. The boat bobs gently and it is peaceful without the throb of the engine. Time passes. The men snap at each other in the cabin as I admire the grey, silver, monochrome world.
Water, oil, tools. Angel emerges. “Candela,” he tells me and shrugs. I don’t know which part of the engine this is but I don’t doubt from his demeanour it’s vital function. Alfredo is still invisible in the pit hammering at something.
Eventually the engine revives enough to limp to the nearest island.
Tears? Were they tears in Alfredo’s eyes when he said, “Anna, give me the money to fix my boat!” If only all gringos were as rich as the people here believe.
A cargo boat moored at the island wharf offers to tow us to Obaldia but El Inesparado under tow wallows and flounders unable to find it’s own way safely over the waves. The rope pulls the prow down and water washes over the deck as the boat lists perilously threatening to capsize, loose items sliding overboard. I cling to a rope to keep on my feet. Alfredo shouts – “Seulta lo! Seulta lo!*” He looks defeated. Angel says, “Put Anna on the other boat!”
So… a change of ship at sea. Bike and bags urgently passed up to people standing at the rails of the steel hull looming above us. A hurried scramble, a foot hold, one hand on a rail, back pack hooked over the other shoulder. Then Alfredo, Poli and Angel are far below me, looking up. Angel nods. Alfredo looks away. I am heart-broken. It is too sudden this sundering. Where is Poli?
I will never know how the story ends.
And it is like coming up for air after a long held breath underwater. I break the surface and enter a different world.
What do I find so beautiful and intelligible about sheer need. I loved those people: Poli, and his son, Alfredo. After five days aboard a leaky failing boat. Their patience and persistence, their courage, their pride, their humility. Their good humour and their resignation. The way they can make do, make the best of things. Their capacity to be joyful and laugh. Their faith.
Here on a boat with electricity and water tanks, kitchen, bathroom people are kind but distant. They give me food but I will not love them for it.**
I keep coming back to the sheer beauty of it. The surface of the sea a mirror now. Canoes on the water, a man standing placidly, casting a line, patiently, over and over. This could be any morning in eternity, any time in history. We are here. I have seen it.
The morning grey soft calm, as if wind were a thing unimaginable. The clouds gently unravelling as the sun rises. Clouds casting shadows upwards into the sky. A patch of light refracted into an oily smear of iridescence – colours I’ve never seen in the sky before – verdigris, violet, vermillion.
*Suetla lo = I guess something like ‘let it go’ or ‘loosen it’
**When I regain a little more of my customary cynicism it occurs to me that some of my feelings – or the strength of them – might have been vaguely akin to Stockholm’s Syndrome. An interesting thought, really, and one that is still occupying me.