Whoever Fears the Sea by Justin Fox (english novels to improve english txt) 📕

‘The US has got enough on its hands right now,’ said Paul.

‘But that’s the whole point. This does affect them. There are towel-heads everywhere wanting to take over the world!’ Doug banged the counter. Patrons turned to look at them. Paul squirmed. ‘Somalia especially,’ he continued. ‘Muslims are convinced their culture is superior, and obsessed with the inferiority of their power.’ It sounded like Doug was quoting something he’d read. ‘The only way to deal with this kind of Arab and his ideas about gee-had is to wipe him out.’

Paul answered under his breath: ‘Surely that’s not the way —’

‘Nah, bru, don’t pussyfoot around!’ Doug was almost shouting. ‘Nuke the camel-fuckers, that’s what I say.’

‘I need some shut-eye. I’ll see you around,’ said Paul. He downed the dregs of his milkshake and made a hasty exit, feeling the eyes of the patrons following him out the door.

CHAPTER 15

The following afternoon, Paul was taking a stroll along the promenade, daydreaming in another era once again, when he spotted a strange craft moored stern to. He stepped closer to have a look at the ornately carved stern-castle with its galleried decorations, and felt himself sliding back into the seventeenth century...

The vessel was more Portuguese galleon than dhow, a romantic creature of intricately carved teak, her hull oiled and gleaming. A tall man in his late twenties stood on the shore directing the offloading of dates. He wore a spotless white dishdasha and a pompom-fringed ghatra was wound about his head. Round his waist was a thick silver-filigree belt sporting a curved dagger with an ivory handle. He was a handsome fellow with a hawk nose, beard trimmed to a point, bushy eyebrows and a booming voice.

‘Salaam alaikum, Captain, where is your ship from?’ he enquired.

‘Alaikum salaam, Mister. We arrived from Sur this morning.’

‘I’ve never seen such a boat,’ said Paul, marvelling at the carvings on her stern.

‘It is a ghanjah, the most beautiful of all dhows. My name is Ahmed Suleiman, nakhoda.’

They fell to talking about the vessel. Paul wanted to know more about Ahmed and his crew, their passage and how they came to be trading on the coast so close to the beginning of the season.

‘The Kaskazi was early this year. I left immediately and stood close inshore, using the land airs and taking advantage of the counter current. Every successful voyage across the Abyssinian Sea is a gift from Allah, praise be to Him.’

Ahmed invited Paul on board. As they strode the spacious deck, Paul learnt that the ghanjah was ninety feet long and displaced 120 tons. She had two masts, thick as tree trunks, and carried a vast spread of canvas. Her tall prow was in the shape of a bird’s head with a long beak. It reminded him of a mtepe. Most of the upper parts were carved with fleur-de-lis and vine patterns, while the stern quarters were adorned with decorative plaques painted blue and white.

The crewmen — Paul couldn’t help thinking they were slaves — had laid out cushions and a Persian carpet behind the brass binnacle on the poop. Ahmed invited his guest to tea, which was poured from a samovar into tiny glasses by a black man in a red kikoi. A tray of sherbet and sweetmeats was placed beside Paul. The servant wafted some incense in their direction from a burner, then retired from the poop.

The two men reclined on the cushions, chatting and watching the activity of the sailors and the unloading of goods from their hold. Ahmed told Paul that he was selling some of his cargo of dates, dried fish and salt in Lamu, before continuing south for further trading. He’d be taking on mangrove poles at whichever port offered the best price; he might even cut them himself in the Rufiji Delta. However, he was open to just about any items, as long as the price was right and the resale prospects good. There was, for instance, an order for a pair of elephant tusks from a friend in Muscat, and rhino horn always fetched a tidy sum back in Sur.

‘A few slaves, too, if I can get a good deal,’ he said, between puffs from an earthenware hookah pipe. ‘I also have some chests and carpets for trading in Lamu, but this I will do through the family with whom I lodge. They have a room for me, very private, with a latrine of my own. It is comfortable. I do most of my trading in Lamu through the master of the house, which is our custom. They put me up each season. Our respective families have had close ties for generations. I might even make his daughter my bride, but not this year. She is only fifteen.’

‘And take her back to Sur?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Will she make a good wife?’

‘I think so. Hers is an eminent family, but I have not seen much of her, as is our custom. We do not have much opportunity to be with women of high breeding. Thank goodness for the slave girls.’

They discussed the sailing qualities of the ghanjah and the art of blue-water navigation. ‘My father taught me the ways of piloting,’ said Ahmed. ‘From him I learnt the value of signs, of a change in the weather. You can tell which region of the ocean you are in by the types of fish or by the colour of the water. At night we sail by the stars. As it says in the Koran: “Allah it is who appointed for you the stars, that ye guide yourselves thereby in the darkness of land and sea.”’

‘Do you use a compass?’ asked Paul.

‘A magnetic needle? Not I. Some nakhodas do. I prefer a kamal.’

‘A camel?’

‘No, no, my friend, the ka-maal. Here, let me show you.’ Ahmed reached into a