Tobruk, Or Not Tobruk?

 

Tobruk, Or Not Tobruk?

“So you want to go to the party in Tobruk?” came a stranger’s voice in an almost mocking tone, loud and unexpected. I stopped writing and looked up from my journal to see a face textured by decades of hard work, salt spray, fierce sun and exhaust fumes from diesel engines twice his age. Then grinning through his lack of teeth he introduced himself as Khaled and held out his hand to shake mine.

“Two coffees!” he shouted at the waiter who was busily scribbling on his pad orders from a group of bright and breezy Germans at the other end of the café’s harbourside terrace. “Black as Hell, strong as death, sweet as love, and brewed for Arabs!” he added before sitting down at my table. He lit a cigarette from a half-crushed, oil-stained packet he’d produced from somewhere in the folds of the loose-fitting cotton jerd that hid all but that wrinkled face and his calloused hands. With his greasy sleeve he wiped sweat from his brow, his eyes scowling at the Cretan sun that already had a sting in it despite the early hour. Then he coughed, attempted to spit the aftermath of early-morning chain-smoking into the dock, missed, and threw the packet towards me, gesturing that I should help myself. The brand name printed on the once glossy cardboard said ‘Manchester Menthol’. I wasn’t sure if the accompanying words ‘Made in Dubai’ made them sound more or less exotic.

I’d arrived in Agia Galini just as the first light had begun to brighten the eastern sky. To pass the time until Taverna Daidalos declared itself open with the aroma of freshly baked bougatsa, I wandered slowly along the jetty, taking in the many features of the fleet of assorted boats moored there. They were small cabin cruisers mostly, plus a few of the trip-round-the-lighthouse craft that make the foreign sunworshippers feel like they’ve really sampled the local culture after disembarking from an intrepid hour-long voyage on one of them.

There were also a few old fishing boats precariously held together by rust, weather-dried accumulations of fish scales, and frayed lengths of hemp rope possibly left behind by Odysseus when he’d gone wandering off as a young lad. One boat in particular stood out as it had Arabic writing hand-painted in white on its bright blue stern. In my curious traveller’s mind this conjured up another world that I wanted to know more about. Sinbad couldn’t have been far away.

“It’s from Libya,” said Kostas as he took my order for breakfast. “We’re only 350 kilometres from their coastline. They catch sardines out at sea and call in here for fuel and bread, and to ogle at the naked West Europeans on the beach. They don’t have bare flesh or raki where they come from, but even if they did their wives and preachers wouldn’t let them go anywhere near.” A hint of a Black Country accent each time he spoke suggested that Kostas wasn’t a permanent resident of Agia Galini either.

“Really? Libya’s so close? I’d love to go there,” I thought out loud.

Kostas laughed and said “I’ll see what I can do for you. But you’re going nowhere until you’ve tasted our yoghurt with honey and pine nuts. It’s the best on the island.” These were words that I’d heard from every Cretan waiter I’d ever met, even in Belfast.

Thirty minutes later Kostas had ‘had a word’ and Khaled, the owner of the boat, was suggesting I pay him €100 for the journey. Three daily meals of fried fish would be included in the price but I should take my own bread, and he didn’t accept Libyan dinars.

“To Tobruk?” I asked him to confirm.

“No, to Bardia! An old port near the border with Egypt. Tobruk is no good. It is a crazy town. They will slit your throat for your cheap shit British watch.” Though he tried, Khaled’s words did little to assure me that my safety mattered, and I was concerned that the £9 I had paid for travel insurance at the post office in Chippenham might not have been enough to provide the appropriate level of cover for what lay ahead of me if I were to accept his invitation.

“When do we come back?” was my next question, failing to enquire about the cost of a return ticket. The availability of a private cabin wasn’t worth mentioning.

“We return after three days, maybe four.” He paused to expectorate violently then lit his fourth or fifth cigarette before adding “Who knows when the nets will be full or which way the currents will take us? Only God can decide,” to the terms of our verbal contract of passage. Thoughts of such an adventure had my heart racing but maybe there had been too many maybes. Maybe I wouldn’t get back at all. Maybe I would fall in love with his North African fishing community and not want to return to my sterile run-of-the-mill way of life in England. Maybe I would find Islam or the girl of my dreams, though the former was much less likely than the latter. Maybe the boat wasn’t seaworthy. I had my passport and a little cash with me but would that be enough to satisfy immigration officials, particularly corrupt ones?

My holiday accommodation at the time could have been described as an accidental birthday present. Eight months before making the trip my friend Sue had asked me “So what are you going to do to celebrate your fiftieth birthday?”

“I’m going to Ireland’s Causeway Coast and the Glens of Antrim to revive memories from my childhood and visit family I haven’t seen for thirty-seven years.” I’d been planning this for ages so I didn’t need to think for more than a second before answering her question.

“Ireland? In November? It’ll be shit!” She ridiculed my idea before suggesting “I’ve a tiny apartment on Crete’s north coast. It’s too small to rent out so it’s always empty when I’m not there. If you go over in May the weather will be starting to hot up and you can check that it’s survived the winter before I take myself there for the summer months. You’d be doing me a big favour. You can have it for nothing. Two weeks free of charge. What do you reckon?”

Thinking back to the autumn days in the Ireland of my childhood, and all the rain and fog that came with them, I immediately snapped “Yes! Yes! Yes!” before she could change her mind. Her face beamed and then, on an old map patched up with Sellotape and smelling of suncream and ouzo, she showed me the place I would be heading for, where the airport was and where I would find the best this-that-and-the-others during my stay. As we shook hands to seal the agreement my dreams of Irish stew, Guinness and turf fires turned to kleftiko, Mythos and warm sea.

After months of waiting in eager anticipation, on a rainy May afternoon at Bristol airport I boarded a plane alone for the first time since before my kids were born. Although I loved them to bits, that in itself was a treat. In terms of being hungry or needing a wee, I had only myself to think about.

Arriving at the seaside town of Rethimno in the middle of the night heightened the thrill of a long and exciting day, so in my new temporary residence I found it impossible to sleep. To fill the hours until it was time to go out to play I unpacked my bag and stowed all my clothes and belongings away in the ample cupboard space that Sue had boasted. The wardrobe and the bathroom were similarly sized. But my adrenalin had to stay where it was, whizzing about from internal organ to internal organ, as you might expect from a hormone on its holidays. 

Then, in the cold light of day, I found that the dream destination promised to me was very nice but not really my cup of malotira. Sue’s apartment was very small and just right for the solo traveller but it stood on the ground floor adjacent to a busy pathway in the middle of a very stylish place no doubt referred to by other more sociable and upmarket travellers as a ‘resort complex’. Within a five-minute walk from my front door I had a choice of half a dozen beautiful azure-blue-tiled swimming pools surrounded by sunbeds and tropical bars with fibreglass thatch where cocktails were served from separate menus for the non-diabetic and the diabetic. How many guests started their holiday on one of these and finished on the other? And at no point was I ever more than five metres away from a speaker torturing my ears with taped recordings of Ken Bruce’s BBC Radio Two mid-morning show that included all the latest news from months ago.

As an alternative, just a kilometre beyond the perimeter fence there was a wide-open expanse of public beach where I could pay to use a sunbed and beach umbrella in a poorer state of repair than any of the free ones back at the resort, but only if I could find one that hadn’t been reserved with a strategically placed Tesco beach towel and a copy of the currently popular Fifty Shades of Grey romantic novel. Bathers unskilled in the arts of catching their frisbees and controlling their children abounded and irritated.

In the Lycomedes Reception Plaza (that’s Greek for foyer) there was a jeweller’s shop, a posh frock shop for the posh ladies, and a shop with just a single shoe priced up at €499.99 in its window display, presumably for the posh one-legged ladies. I couldn’t help but wonder if they had a buy-one-get-one-free offer but didn’t dare to ask in case they did and I was made to feel guilty for not taking them up on it.

On each of the first few mornings I’d see my fellow holidaymakers wander off in search of authentic Greek cafés serving all-day English breakfasts, so called because they took all day to digest. As evening fell, bedecked in all their finery, those same people would walk past me as I sat at my terrace table in tee-shirt and shorts. There I could lounge in serenity with a bottle of local wine and a big bag of sea urchin flavoured crisps for a few hours until the restaurant closed and the pissed and sunburnt bourgeoise would make the return journey to their own apartments, but with increased noise and decreased velocity.  

At the airport in Heraklion I’d hired a little car, the make and model of which escapes me. Their names all sound the same, but it may have been a Hyundai Syphilis. I remember it being equipped with an engine not much bigger than that of a garden leaf blower, but it got me from alpha to beta. In fact it got me around much more than I had anticipated as on day three of my escapade I came to the conclusion that I was a bored shitless and in dire need of an escape. So with a tank full of chip fat and a detailed map of the island, I headed off in search of paradise. And I found it not far away on Crete’s southern shore.

From that point onwards I set my alarm clock for half past ridiculous every morning and embarked on long days exploring unspoilt villages, medieval monasteries, ancient ruins, secluded coves, sandy beaches, and the loveliest little cafés and restaurants I had ever known. Everyone I met was friendlier than in downtown Rethimno (locals and visitors alike), and everything I bought was cheaper. In that part of the island the topography was what might be described as challenging, so it was difficult for the tour companies to send their buses there or to build big hotels. Consequently, tranquillity persisted.

Some nights I returned to my lodgings at the resort but on others I’d find a room to rent for around the same price as a Rethimno beach sunbed. In those remote settlements I didn’t need to look at the map or guidebook to find somewhere to eat as the aroma of freshly gathered herbs used in the preparation of delicious local dishes served as my compass. On the beaches the only footprints belonged to goats or the occasional hippy, though it was sometimes difficult to tell these good-natured, sociable and hirsute creatures apart. Music played in bars in the evenings would often be by Bob Dylan or Joni Mitchell, eternally preferable to the Now That’s What I Call Music Volume 643 CD, featuring Boyzone and the Pussycat Dolls, that blighted the nightlife to the north.

The morning I called in at Agia Galini I was on my way to Lentas which, nestled amongst spectacular scenery, was a haven for peace-loving individuals, goatherds and vulcanologists. It was a place gently lapped by clear blue sea and ideal for swimming, dolphin watching and switching off from the madness of the world beyond. But what Khaled the fisherman was offering was a completely different kettle of asmaak (the Arabic word for fish).

Scratching his head through his oil-stained red chechia, he asked me “So will you join us on the trip my friend? You will earn your food if you are helping us with the work. The sardines (the Arabic word for sardines) taste sweeter when you have sweat on your face.”

“Us?” I enquired. I don’t know why I was surprised that he didn’t work alone. “Who else will be on the boat?”

“My crew go with me everywhere. They are called Mohamed and Mohammed.” I looked around but didn’t see them. Noticing this, he said “Now they sleep in the belly of the boat while their own bellies burst with beer and sheep meat from last night.”

My curiosity deepening, I had to know “How can you tell which of them is which if they both have the same name?”

“The letter ‘m’ is in Mohammed’s name three times, but in Mohamed’s it appears only twice.” Pre-empting my next question he explained “Their father was a very holy man and he wanted to give them both the name of the divine messenger of God, but you can’t have two sons with the same name. The Imam in their village was a wise and pious man who had studied the sacred scriptures all his life. The elders at the mosque had taught him how to write and how to read, so he had the answer to the naming problem.” I didn’t ask if there were any sisters in case he got the wrong end of the stick.

For a few minutes we said nothing. Kostas brought two more cups of Greek coffee and the bill. He’d finished his breakfast-time shift and wanted to go home so we had to settle up. I was deep in thought. My companion had no money. My hand went deep into my pocket and the relieved waiter clutching a generous tip went on his way.

Khaled broke the silence. “You can pay me with traveller’s cheques. Will you come to my country? Will you meet my wife and children? Will you make me and my family very proud?”

My heart was torn like never before. I desperately wanted to cross the Libyan Sea on that little blue fishing boat of his. I desperately wanted to visit Libya, a place where nobody I knew had ever been. But the logistics were too complicated. I had deadlines for checking out of the luxury labyrinthine tourist resort, for returning the Hyundai to the car rental company, for flying back to Britain, and for going back to work. The great unknown contained great scope for delays, and the possibility of death was something else that had to be factored in.

“I’m sorry Khaled. Thank you, but no.” It seemed to take an eternity for those words to leave my lips. “Maybe the next time I’m in Crete I will say yes.”

“I will save you a place on my boat for when you are here next year, insha'Allah. And I will pay the bill when I take you to Café Gaddafi in Bardia. They make the best magroodh in North Africa.” However, I suspected that the loss of my boat fare disappointed him more than the loss of me as a travelling companion and deckhand.  

For my next holiday I went to Ireland’s Causeway Coast and the Glens of Antrim to revive memories from my childhood and visit family I hadn’t seen for thirty-eight years. I never went back to Agia Galini. I never saw Khaled again and I never made it to Libya, largely because of the political instability and civil war that all but destroyed the country a couple of years later. But I never forgot that Khaled had given me the taste for a new type of travelling.

Thirty years earlier I’d visited countries across the globe on merchant ships, but it was work rather than wanderlust that took me there. Although exciting and exotic I considered that too comfortable, and the cheat’s way of getting around. So during many of the trips I later made simply for personal exploration purposes, to places often beyond the predictability of the Western world, I thought back to that breakfast business meeting with my oil, nicotine and coffee-stained old Arab fisherman acquaintance and silently I thanked him.

 

 

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Image:

My own photograph of Khaled’s fishing boat in the harbour at Agia Galini in Crete. I wish I’d asked him what the Arabic writing said.