New Friends

I’d heard many, many bad things about the sea crossing that I was about to make, between Valetta and Tripoli harbours. Frankly, I suspected that most of them were travellers’ tales, designed to impress me. I did know one fact, however: that all of my colleagues, to a man, avoided this ferry ride if at all possible and I wanted to find out why.

The trouble was, there weren’t many easy routes into Libya in 1994. A United Nation embargo forbade international flights into Tripoli Airport, and closure of the Egyptian border was frequent apparently, due to long-standing disputes and difficulties. The best route, colleagues had told me, entailed a long detour by ‘plane and taxi via Djerba in Tunisia. As tension on the Tunisian border was also possible however, and the amount of driving involved seemed excessive in the summer heat, the case for a romantic boat trip was strong. So, following my heart rather than my head again, I opted for first-hand experience rather than second-hand advice.

What did they teach me in the Army, ‘Any fool can be uncomfortable?’ Well, my foolishness and discomfort became clear as soon as I rounded the last corner beyond the passenger terminal for there, snaking along the quay before me, was a really impressive queue of Filipinos, Indians and Europeans all waiting to board. Being British, I knew all about queuing and recognised instantly that this particular example was of exceptional quality. Full of etiquette and innocence, I duly joined the end.

Whilst simmering slowly in thirty odd degrees of Mediterranean heat, I noticed that there weren’t any Arabs standing in line. Indeed, they seemed to have different boarding arrangements altogether. Most bypassed the queue, I noticed, and headed straight for the check-in clerk, whom I imagined to be sitting in air-conditioned splendour somewhere inside the boat. In the first hour of my queuing, whilst I was still very near the back, I noticed that the crewmember assigned to queue-duties cordially invited forward those Arabs who mistakenly joined the end.

As I tried to understand the Arabic on my boarding card, I began to know how it felt to be a second class citizen. My sense of injustice grew as each hour passed. Thankfully, a Norwegian man nearby, who’d endured the ship’s queuing arrangements several times in recent years, told me what was going on. He said that Libyan nationals and other Arabs always got straight onto the ship, a policy that ensured they occupied the best cabins, he said.

Enlightened, I realised why the queue that I’d been in for almost two hours hadn’t moved more than a metre toward the boat. Awfully, it suggested that the queue wouldn’t be moving forward for several more hours yet, as the boat wasn’t due to depart until late afternoon, possibly the early evening. As the Norwegian confided in me that it was wiser to take the air and land route into Tripoli via Djerba, I silently thanked our Maltese agent for insisting that I lugged so much mineral water away from his office.

The relentless summer sun beat down on the now enormous queue; there was no shade and no respite therefore. The disarray and unease amongst those around me was beginning to become palpable. As the fortunate swept past the unfortunate, I could sense the anger welling up inside me too. How had I come to this sorry state of affairs? Even my fellow passengers, who’d endured the indignity of ‘second class’ citizenship before, were beginning to crack. It was only a matter of time before tempers began to fray. A stiff upper lip was called for and, being British, I wouldn’t be the first one to break under the pressure. In a sober moment, I realised that only now could I empathise fully with all those poor souls who’d been stuck in the passport queue at Nicosia a few days earlier.

Just as my bottom lip began to wobble, a man from some where behind me came forward in an agitated manner to confront the latest crewman marshalling the queue. Obviously, the passenger was as new to this tedious formality as I was, and lacked the enlightenment provided by my Norwegian friend. As he protested vigorously about his mistreatment, my new friend from the far north gave me a wry smile. He knew the futility of the passenger’s complaint and his face confirmed to me the need for yet more patience. The ensuing fracas provided a moment’s light relief in an otherwise dull, wasteful and pointless afternoon. It resulted in a brusque version of the treatment meted out to anyone who drifted out of linear alignment that afternoon, being sent right to the back of the queue.

Another hour or so later, the check-in clerk invited the foreigners to board. Seething with pent-up emotion by this time, we all surged forward like naughty boys on a school outing. Resembling inexperienced teachers, the crew did their best to control us but, especially in the close confines of the car deck, this task proved impossible. Relieved to be boarding at last, a good-natured push and shove match ensued amongst we lower caste boys. The various rucks and mauls that formed confirmed the crew’s suspicion that we really were a second class rabble.

Having survived the sweaty squabble on the car deck, and clomped up a narrow metal staircase with my bags, I entered one of the ship’s passenger decks. Close to me was the Norwegian, and we both relished the air conditioning. Once we were at the head of the queue, the clerk parted us from our passports, something that I always hated when I was travelling abroad.

The Scandinavian and I were allocated a twin cabin on the lowest habitable deck. Deep in the bowels of this rusty tub, we’d be well below the water line. In fact, I couldn’t believe how many flights of stairs the steward took us down, and I could only hope that the call to abandon ship didn’t come in the middle of the night. Eventually, we found our cabin and the steward let us in. The passengers’ key had disappeared long ago apparently, so either one of us would have to stay put in the cabin to let the other in, or we’d have to play a complicated team game called, ‘Find a Steward with a Master Key’.

As our door swung open, the steward groped for the light switch. The resulting click turned the blackness into a gloom slowly. Once my eyes had become accustomed to the new light level, I could just make out the dim shape of bunk beds, the lower one of which I seized. There was little or no storage space for our luggage, so we agreed that it should reside on our beds for the time being. Anyhow, the Norwegian said that I should get used to cuddling my bags, since it had been known for the check-in clerk to allocate three people to a small cabin like ours. The third inhabitant would have to sleep on what little floor space there was.

To the right of the ‘third bed-space’, the narrow strip of well-worn carpet between our bunks and a partition, was the en-suite toilet and wash basin. Now, when I say ‘en-suite’ you’re probably conjuring images of pristine ceramics and pine-scented give-aways. Let me dispel those fanciful notions straight away. On entering this cubicle, though the hole where a door once swung, I discovered that both pieces of ‘sanitary ware’ were made of stainless steel, and that both were anything but sanitary. To say that our ablution cupboard was grubby, smelly and squalid would have understated reality significantly. In eleven years’ service with the British Forces, I'd washed and slept in some pretty awful places. These were by far the most awful I'd ever experienced.

Having spent all of three minutes in our cabin, which was more than enough I can assure you, the Norwegian and I headed for the top deck, hoping that some sun and fresh air would counter our discomfort and despondency. After what seemed like a five hundred metre vertical climb, I recall feeling less stunned and shocked by my unpleasant experience down below than I had been in Limassol on that awful first Sunday of my reconnaissance. Perhaps I was becoming desensitised, worldly, less of an innocent abroad.

We emerged from a stairwell, blinking rapidly until our eyes adjusted to the dazzling light levels last experienced on the quayside. Nauseating diesel fumes from a funnel nearby mixed easily with the smells of the dock. A few foreigners were making ramshackle beds out of newspaper on some of the less public wooden benches, in a similar way to London’s homeless did. I wondered whether these were the real unfortunates, the troublemakers from the back of the queue who the clerk hadn’t even been able to allocate ‘third bunks’ in twin bunk cabins. Equally, they might have been seasoned travellers from the front of the queue, determined not to spend their voyage cuddling their luggage in cramped, unsavoury and seedy conditions. Up on deck, at least there’d be plenty of space and fresh air, as long as they were upwind of those funnels.

As fellow travellers headed toward the dubious pleasures of the ship’s mess halls, rumours circulated that we would set off late, due to technical difficulties. The rumours were true and, by late evening, we were still in Valetta. As I sat reading my novel under a light on the top deck, I reflected on the similarities of recent events. If my encounter with the ablution cubicle had resembled my first encounter with the chairman’s foyer, my encounter with delayed boat departures now resembled the aircraft delays when I flew back to Newcastle. Life seemed full of unfortunate patterns.

Tired after the afternoon’s traumas, the Norwegian and I headed downstairs to play hunt a master key-holder. Having won, I congratulated the other member of my team, and lay on my bunk wishing that I had slept under the stars instead, just as Allie and I had done on a ferry trip between Piraeus and Santorini all those years ago. It was too late now.

Wishing my new chum ‘good night’ (only two of us occupied the cabin), I clicked the switch above my pillow and the gloom gave way to blackness, slowly. At least there were no mosquitoes in this sub-sea cubby-hole. I’d clobbered the two lying in wait in our cabin that night with my book. Some time later, after I’d fallen asleep, the ship departed Valetta.

Having woken early, I decided to walk round the top decks before tucking into the packed breakfast that our agent had supplied. I needed desperately to clear my head, and a sweet combination of mid-sea air and the aroma from the ship’s bakery did the trick. The smell of fresh bread was tantalising, but someone had told me not to eat any of the ship’s food. Apparently, it wasn’t designed for sensitive British stomachs; it was only for those with cast-iron constitutions. Instead therefore, I feasted on Maltese sandwiches.

With sustenance inside me, I felt strong enough to attempt a wash and shave in our cabin’s en suite facilities. The military had taught me the importance of sleeping and eating properly in times of adversity. It had also taught me the importance of keeping clean. On hearing of my proposed bravery, the Norwegian took his turn around the top decks, switching off the main cabin light as he departed. He intended to save his ablutions until he reached his hotel in Tripoli. I knew why instantly on entering the en suite cubicle. A revolting smell of stale urine assaulted my nose with no less force than a Frank Bruno jab. I persevered however, and managed to wash and shave in the small sink. Again, the military had taught me how to make the most of small amounts of clean water, and the need to carry a universal sink plug wherever I travelled.

Having finished, I used the cubicle light to help me find the main cabin’s light switch. Eventually, I slid my hand along the cabin wall and just groped in what I knew to be the right place. Something small and hard gave way under my probing, and the low wattage bulb reluctantly struggled back into life.

To me, the bulb was very dim. However, to the numerous young cockroaches playing on my bed it felt like the centre spot at Twickenham, minutes before the kick-off of a floodlit England versus France game. Feeling as exposed as the cockroach that the waiter crushed in Limassol, the insects scurried for cover under my sheets and blankets. Clearly, I hadn't just been cuddling my luggage the previous night. Perhaps my bedfellows thought that I was coming back for another cuddle. If so, how wrong they were! No wonder I had slept so fitfully.

Disgusted by the nightmarish images now occupying my mind, of the world’s most effective scavenger hunting for my sandwiches whilst I slept, I removed a sheet from my bed cautiously and gave it a good shake, just in case. I used a corner of the sheet to dry myself. You see, I’d left the agent’s towel in his office intentionally, perhaps knowing that I’d be travelling to Tripoli via Djerba in future, and that I wouldn’t be able to return it easily. I then hung my clean clothes on a hook carefully, to prevent anything scampering into my vest, shirt or worse. Despite the adversity, I was determined to arrive in Tripoli looking clean and dapper. I wanted to re-establish the image of a professional westerner abroad, who was ready and able to negotiate business matters on behalf of his employer.

With my luggage free of six-legged stowaways, and feeling a little fresher, I went in search of my passport. As I set out, I felt aggrieved about the hundreds of US dollars that my employer had spent on the crossing. So, closing the cabin door one last time, I vowed that I would never use the ship again.

The fax debacle, queue farce and cabin fiasco behind me, I climbed many sets of stairs to observe our docking in Tripoli. As I ascended through the decks, my spirits began to rise too. It was yet another warm and sunny day, of course, and I felt optimistic. After the events of the previous twenty-four hours, surely any problems that lay ahead of me now would be simple to solve. The Norwegian was already taking in the view and I commented to him how modern and impressive Tripoli’s skyline looked: there were splendid white buildings of every shape and size all around. From the boat, the title, ‘Jewel of the Mediterranean,’ seemed apt. He replied that the most impressive features had been erected in the days before sanctions, and that nothing much had moved forward since.

Before shuffling off to collect his passport, my companion pressed a piece of paper into my hand. On it, were the details of someone who would help me apparently, if I ever got into any ‘difficulties’. The gift was offered in a serious manner and alarm bells instantly began ringing in my head, for someone had given me a similar piece of paper in similar circumstances in Cyprus. Once was a quirk; twice was the start of yet another pattern! What was about to happen to me? What could go so catastrophically wrong that I might need ‘help’? I decided that it was better not to worry about situations I couldn’t possibly predict, and to sally forth instead with blithe optimism, ignorance and a large smile.

Ever since my father had left home when I was ten years old, and I’d suddenly become ‘man of the house’, I’d always been independent and self-sufficient. Five years on from the dreadful day he departed, I caught trains to London alone most Saturdays, to watch Chelsea play soccer. Those were the days of huge crowds and mindless violence at the Stamford Bridge ground, and the thought of a fifteen year old going there alone must have scared my mother half to death. I’d survived though and become streetwise.

Another four years on, at the tender age of nineteen, I’d packed a rucsac and headed abroad for the first time. I enjoyed being alone and the freedom to make my own decisions that went with it. A long train journey that year had taken me across Europe to the Mediterranean, where my recently rekindled love affair had begun. Whatever lay ahead in Libya now, I'd cope.

As the ship pirouetted in the middle of a large expanse of water some way beyond the harbour entrance, and pointed its stern at an excited throng of people on the quayside, it became clear that disembarkation was imminent. At this point, my fellow passengers panicked and surged towards the deck hatches that led downwards. Following suit, and the Norwegian’s shock of blond hair, I made found a gangway that would lead to Libya.

There, I joined another huge queue. The crew wasn’t as ready this time though, so everyone - Arab and non-Arab, first class and second class, professional and labourer - found themselves waiting in line, side by side. I stood alongside other seasoned travellers who’d followed this route many times before, most of them heading for work in Libya’s oilfields. Whilst waiting for the logjam to clear, I listened quietly whilst they exchanged their own ‘war stories’ about the boat.

One man told of being trapped on board in Valetta Harbour for days whilst repairs were effected. The crew wouldn’t allow him to get off apparently, presumably because he was a foreigner without a valid reason for being in the country. Another man described how the ship had moved about violently one night, in one of the worst winter storms at sea that he’d ever experienced. A third said that the crew had kept him on the ship one time for many hours after docking, until immigration and customs officials had checked his documents and baggage.

I gave much greater credibility, by this time, to some of the other travellers’ tales that I'd been so sceptical of in Cyprus, and began to understand why I might need some talented and trusted go-betweens if things became difficult.