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

a mop of red hair over her shoulder. ‘On that same morning of the bombing, there was a woman from LA staying at Kijani who paid a local guy to clean the anti-American graffiti off the wall. Can you believe it? She’s paying in dollars for a Muslim African ... I mean, you just can’t do that.’

The Dutch came to say goodbye. Paul felt he’d had far too little time alone with Lorike, and now it was over. They stood in Kijani’s garden exchanging small talk and email addresses. Paul shook hands with Pieter and gave Katja a hug. He kissed Lorike on the cheek. They kept their voices neutral as Lorike’s fingernails bit into his hand.

The Dutch scrambled on to Pernille and poled away from the shore. Paul stood waving for a long time.

 

CHAPTER 19

 

Walking back to Kijani, Paul wondered whether it wasn’t time that he, too, thought about booking a flight home. Before returning to South Africa, he wanted to make one last attempt at finding a passage to Somalia. Pierre knew of a dhow owned by a friend who was sometimes game for unconventional charters. Apparently, Jamal was a jahazi that could accommodate the entire documentary crew for overnight shoots and sounded just right. Pierre had been making enquiries, but the vessel was currently at Pate.

‘I have some good news for you,’ said the Swiss as Paul walked into reception. ‘My friend has just returned from the north and says he might be able to help you. This guy has been sailing the waters of the archipelago since he was a kid. I’ve told him to come for tea this afternoon. Make sure you’re here at four.’

Paul sat waiting in Kijani’s garden. When the skipper of Fayswal stepped through the gate, he did a double take. Husni had swapped his shorts and T-shirt for a white kanzu and looked every bit the ancient nakhoda.

‘What on earth are you doing here?’

‘Hello, Paul. Pierre sent for me. I told you I was going to see my family in Pate and the crew would sail Fayswal home.’

‘So you’re the skipper of Jamal?’

‘Sort of. It is our family dhow. When I heard you were still in Lamu and still trying to sail north, I talked to my father and uncles. So here I am.’

They sat in the dappled shade of a frangipani tree, sipping tea and discussing the possibilities.

‘I’m trying to get to a town called Galoh,’ said Paul. ‘I read an article that said there might still be a mtepe there, you know, one of those old sewn dhows?’

‘Yes, I know mtepes.’

‘If there is one there, it would be fantastic for my documentary.’

‘Well, you are in luck. If we do go to Somalia, I would stop at Galoh anyway. My brother lives there and I have not seen him in two years.’

‘So you think there’s a chance we could go?’

‘There is a chance, if the price is right. My family needs the money.’ Husni ran a finger along his thin moustache.

‘How long would it take?’ asked Paul.

‘About a week, depending on the wind. My crew will do some fishing. I will visit with my brother —’

‘And I will try to find my mtepe.’

‘Yes, this is not impossible.’

They discussed the details of a hypothetical trip that might just, against the odds, come off. Paul could barely contain his excitement. The price of $350 was reasonable, given the distance. It would consume the rest of his budget with not a cent to spare, but he reckoned it was worth it. Paul named all the places he wanted to stop along the way for his research. Husni was amenable to his requests. They looked at a map, traced a route, listed provisions and settled for a proposed departure two days hence, assuming Husni could muster a crew and organise everything in time.

‘Are you sure it’ll be okay sailing into Somali waters?’ asked Paul.

‘Yes, sure. I know that coast. Don’t worry, you’re not the first foreigner I’ve taken up there.’

‘Really?’

‘Sure. Actually, you might be interested in this for your movie. The man was an archaeologist, a Hungarian. It was many years ago, before things turned bad in Somalia. He was looking for Rhapta. You’ve heard of it?’

‘Yes, the mythical African port.’

‘That’s the one. This Hungarian guy, Halász, had a theory. He said archaeologists had all been looking too far south. I thought he was a bit crazy. He was old, sick — cancer, I think. But we did find some ruins south of Galoh.’

‘Did he dig?’

‘A little. We all helped. Halász found a couple of Roman coins. He was very excited, jumped around like he had a snake in his pants. The man wanted to return with a team and excavate properly, but he died soon after he got back to Hungary — and then Somalia went bad.’

Of course, Rhapta. Paul had forgotten about it in his excitement about mtepes. Come to think of it, reading about Rhapta in the Periplus was how he got on to mtepes in the first place. In fact, he remembered from his reading that the name Rhapta actually referred to sewn boats.

Back in his room, Paul dug up his old notes on Rhapta: Men of the greatest stature, who are pirates, inhabit the whole coast and at each place have set up chiefs... Rhapta’s wealth had been built on ivory. As the opulence of Rome grew during the first century AD, so did the town’s fortunes: the Romans began to use the tusks not only for statues and combs, but also for chairs, bird cages and carriages. The emperor even had a stable built out of ivory for his favourite horse. Rhapta’s other exports, such as rhino horn and turtle-shell, also grew and were exchanged for iron goods, weapons and glassware. Arab agents set