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  Father worried that although Aariz seemed friendly, could we really trust him? Would we ever see our boat again? We were relieved when they returned. We spent that afternoon making some effigies of ourselves by stuffing straw into different-sized hessian sacks and dressing these in Naheed and Father’s well-worn lungis, Fatimah’s colourful shalwar kameez and our T-shirts and trousers that the Sunni gang had seen us wearing. These were all put in a wagon under a tarpaulin and taken to the family’s boathouse and hidden inside our vessel. At dusk, we all left, advertising our departure by walking slowly and talking loudly as we made our way to the boathouse. We left the harbour and could see two small atolls about a mile out to sea. Aariz described how in good times he would take tourists for an ‘authentic’ experience out to the northerly island, where he had built a shelter and cookhouse. The tourists would then row around to the southerly atoll which was tree-covered on its near side but had a secluded golden sand beach on its far side. While the tourists lounged on the beach, the family would prepare a feast to be served with chilled wine for when they returned. In reality, this couldn’t be less authentic, as all the inhabitants of the Maldives are teetotal and would never choose to eat western-style food!

  We had a snack in the shelter and then, using a torch, we left our manikins, propped upright, looking away from the wooded island. We used the rowing boat to return to Aariz’s home. Father was fretting that his precious boat was being left unattended.

  The following morning, Aariz went down before dawn to the harbour, pretending to work on his boat while he watched what was happening out at sea. Sure enough, he saw a dimly lit vessel landing on the far side of the southerly atoll. Ten minutes later, at first light, a blast of rapid automatic fire shattered the peace. The firing stopped. He watched as a boat disappeared out to sea.

  He was overjoyed when he returned to give us his report.

  “Why didn’t they check that everyone was dead?” Naheed asked.

  “They may’ve been afraid to go to the northern island in case they were ambushed. It’s possible they ran out of ammunition. Anyway, I think that’ll be the last we see of them. Good riddance! What are your plans now?”

  Father paused, and frowning, replied. “We can’t go home. We hope the Ebola epidemic has burnt itself out as we plan to sail to Africa.”

  Aariz’s face fell. “That’s more than 3,000 kilometres! You’ll never be able to carry enough fuel. I noticed that you’ve a mast and sail on the boat. Your only hope is to use the trade winds, but the sea can get very rough and your boat might not survive a bad storm.”

  Father countered. “I agree, but we’ve no choice, we’ll go when the trade winds begin. I’ve been told that the sea isn’t too bad early in the season.”

  Hearing this, I pleaded, “Surely there must be somewhere nearer than Africa?”

  “Sorry, Sarah, we’ve no choice. Aariz will help us get everything organised as the trade winds will arrive any day now.”

  They disappeared and we were allowed to explore the town and harbour until evening.

  During our evening meal, Aariz told us about a voyage he’d made long ago. “A friend and I were getting paid to sail a luxury yacht to Pemba Island. On delivery, the owners paid us handsomely. We blagged a lift on a trading boat to mainland Tanzania, and from there, we hitched lifts to Lake Malawi. This place was so beautiful that I wanted to stay forever. The lake was full of fish and the water crystal clear. The soil on the shore was fertile and maize grew abundantly. The people were happy, well fed and welcomed us as if we were long-lost friends. I couldn’t stay as I was engaged to my darling wife. If I were you, I would aim for that lake.”

  That certainly lifted our spirits, and Father resolved to find the lake. We woke as the giant orb of the sun appeared above the coconut palms; we couldn’t thank Aariz and his charming wife enough for rescuing us. I had mixed feelings about boarding our newly stocked boat. Was this going to get us to our promised land, or would it be the vessel taking us to our watery graves?

  We raised our sails to the faintest of breezes and slowly drifted out of the harbour.

  As we rounded the end of the island, the wind picked up and we set our course, due west. We had a relatively peaceful week with gentle winds. It was quite cloudy, which meant we didn’t have to drink so much. We had plenty of water and green coconuts. Regardless, Father was strictly rationing everything as he said we didn’t know what lay ahead.

  The next day the clouds gradually thickened, developing into a towering black thunderstorm by evening. The wind blew us ever faster in a westerly direction. It started to rain, gently at first. The boat was lit up by occasional flashes of lightning. We used a basin to collect fresh water from a tarpaulin we’d strung across the front of the boat. About an hour later, the waves began to crash over the boat as the wind howled around us. Father ordered us to tie the containers to the handrails. The sail was furled around the mast which we laid flat in the boat, securing it with rope. We crammed into the little cabin, sitting on the floor for stability. We’d only just taken up this horribly cramped position when the boat smashed into a massive wave. It was dark, but the water broke with white coruscating flashes of phosphorescence. Pale green balls were silhouetted against the light, washing over the side. That was the end of our coconut water. We were terrified as the waves continued to crash over the boat. I was sure we were all going to drown. Father and Naheed struggled with the wheel to avoid getting broadside to the waves. Fortunately, the cabin was watertight and the waves that washed over the deck were draining well through the scuppers. Fatimah had terrible cramp, which was a nightmare in such an enclosed space. The twin girls slept through in blissful ignorance.

  Morning finally came; the clouds were less thunderous, although the wind and waves still propelled us at a frightening speed. Thankfully, we were all used to being on boats and no one was seasick, which would have been quite unbearable. By midday, the wind and waves abated and we were able to venture on deck to survey the damage. Thanks to Father’s foresight, all the water containers, the sail and the mast were intact. We were able to erect the mast and with the sail up made good progress. That night, Father took a bearing from the stars and declared that we were well south of the equator; using his watch, he reckoned we had about 1,000 kilometres to go.

  The sun shone relentlessly; water was running low. Fatimah made a makeshift shelter with the tarpaulin as we couldn’t fit comfortably in the cabin. Days drifted one into another, and we started getting sores from lack of clean clothes and wooden planks for seats. After another week, we were completely becalmed. Father started the engine, but after about twelve hours, it spluttered and stopped. We were out of fuel. The top of my tongue was so dry that it stuck to the roof of my mouth. I feared we would die shrivelled up like dried tomatoes.

  Morning broke with a slight breeze which picked up through the day. That afternoon, Tom spotted an island on the westerly horizon.

  We arrived that night on a white sandy beach. Along the shore were some rickety old houses and what must once have been grand hotels; all completely deserted. The taps were dry. All the properties had been looted. Mangy cats stalked the alleyways. Father steered me away from a bed where a human skull was resting surreally on a grubby pillow. We found an abandoned army barracks and discovered a journal; its last entry January 2059. The journal had the rather grand title, The President’s Rifles of Lamu. At least we knew where we were! We found a map in the barracks that showed we were 900 kilometres north of Lake Malawi. Father’s makeshift sail could not be used to tack and so we couldn’t use his boat any longer as the wind blew steadily from the east. Naheed had spotted an old dhow tied to the jetty. He went to check it over and returned with the news that it looked seaworthy. The sails were ripped, but nothing that we couldn’t repair if we could find some tough needles and thread.

  Just as we were all going to have a closer look, an old, stooped black man with snow white
curly hair shuffled out of one of the houses. I thought he was using a stick, but I realised my mistake as he raised what was now obviously a gun into the firing position.

  “Get away from my boat. What the hell are you doing here?”

  He was clearly angry, but at least he spoke English and we could understand him.

  Father told him what we’d been through to get here. The old man softened and lowered his gun as the story unfolded. We probably all looked near to death.

  “Well, I guess you’ll be wanting water, a shower and something to eat.”

  He led us into what must have once been a grand house, but was now in a sorry state of repair. We rudely gulped down great quantities of water. He took us to various houses to rummage through their dead owners’ belongings to find some clean clothes. He’d fixed up a shower that worked from a rainwater sump. We used this in turn and it felt marvellous to be free of sweat and salt. We sat down to a meal of plantains, fish and some yellow moist doughy stuff he called mealie-meal. We’d never eaten anything like it before. It wasn’t great but at least it filled our stomachs as we’d run out of rice a week earlier.

  That night, I slept for twelve hours, thankful to be on dry land and in a bed for a change.

  The following morning, Fatimah prepared mango, banana and papaya for breakfast. I was surprised that the old man had gone for a swim. When he returned, he told us that the island had once been a tourist mecca, but that it had suffered terribly when the drought hit East Africa. Then Ebola had swept through, killing the few who were left. He was the last survivor on the whole island. He said, “Nearly everyone has died in Kenya, and wild animals have taken over farms and towns. I suspect it’ll be the same all over Africa. I’ve been thinking about it. That old dhow is of no use to me as it takes two to sail her. We could repair it together. Once you have gone as far south as you want, you will still have a long walk inland to Lake Malawi. You’ll need a gun and some ammunition to protect you from wild animals. There are plenty of guns in the old barracks, but only a few bullets. I need to keep some, but I reckon you could have three, which should be enough to see you through.”

  Thankful for this generous offer, we set about mending the sails. After another good night’s sleep, we loaded our water containers, mealie-meal and plantains on board. We thanked him profusely, winched the sail up the mast and cast off. Slowly, the rather heavy boat lumbered out to sea. The sail was enormous compared to our old fishing boat, but we made slow progress as the wind was very light and coming across our bows. Naheed felt we would be safer only visiting islands, and so we island-hopped down the east coast of Africa. We stopped at Pemba, which was like Lamu but bigger. There were rather more people alive and we didn’t feel welcome. We filled up with water and set sail for Zanzibar. I’d read about this island at school and looked forward to seeing the old town. The shores were covered with tourist thatched huts built over crystal clear azure waters. After a bit, we found the old town, but it seemed rather wretched and forlorn. Stray cats wandered through magnificently carved wooden doorways. A monkey gazed down at us from a rickety colonial balcony as an old man limped through the arch of the stone fort. We still had water and so sailed to the south of the island. Having moored the dhow on a tourist jetty, we walked towards a modern hotel. Two pretty young African women suddenly appeared from behind a pillar.

  “Sorry to pounce on you,” the older one apologised, “we were checking that you didn’t look dangerous.”

  They’d been working at this hotel when the troubles hit, and everyone else in the resort had either left or died. There were large vegetable plots that they tended behind the complex. We stayed with them for a few days, enjoying the comfortable surroundings. They even had electricity as the roof was covered in solar panels! I pleaded with Father to let us stay, but he was determined that we should reach our ‘promised land’. We offered to take them with us, but once they knew of our planned trek, they opted to stay. They were from Tanzania and reckoned we should try to get to Lindi, which was about 300 kilometres down the coast on the mainland of Tanzania. If we were to then take a compass bearing west-southwest we should hit Lake Malawi. They gave us loads of fruit and vegetables and wished us well.

  After the troubles in Kerala, I was thankful for the kind people who had helped us. I had no idea that our luck was soon to run out.

  -----

  Ten days later, as the sun rose behind us, we arrived at Lindi where, having collected our few belongings, we abandoned the dhow. Lindi had once been a colonial town, but now its buildings, including an old Arab fort, were dilapidated and largely deserted. We started our long march inland. I had hardly walked at all for ten weeks and my legs were hopelessly weak. Within ten kilometres, I developed a blister on my left heel which hurt horribly, even though I limped to reduce the pain. The twins complained constantly and even the grown-ups looked exhausted. It was silent except for birdsong and an occasional troop of monkeys crashing through the branches. Just before dusk, we saw a most unusual tree towering above the scattered acacias. It had a tall, straight, smooth brown barrel-like trunk with little branches stuck on the top that looked like the incongruously small arms of a tyrannosaurus rex. Behind this was a collection of houses clustered around a small rusty chapel under the shade of avocado and mango trees. It turned out to be an old mission station. A hunchbacked elderly white man with a wrinkly, weathered face opened his door and bade us welcome.

  “I’m Nathaniel; you appear to be lame, young lady. Have you hurt yourself?”

  “I think it’s just a blister.”

  “If you would like to wash in the bathroom, I have a few plasters left. You are welcome to have one.”

  I soaked and then peeled off my sock, which was stuck to the raw, weeping blister. Father applied a plaster, and after water and homebaked bread, I felt almost human again.

  I don’t know whether he was more amazed by our story or the other way round. He had lived there for fifty-five years. His only daughter had gone to university in Warwick and had sadly died of a drug overdose. He and his wife had never been able to come to accept this terrible loss, and for a while, he’d completely lost all faith in God. His other relatives in the UK were long dead. He was heartbroken when his wife succumbed to Ebola. He told how he’d prayed to be taken too, but however many people he cared for and buried, he never contracted the disease. Two people he nursed did survive and they’d formed a small community that worshipped in his little Methodist chapel.

  “Are you aware that you have 300 kilometres to walk before you reach the lake? It’ll be hard going as there are few roads and you’ll have to climb some mountains covered in forest. Even if you’re fortunate enough to reach the lake, you may find other people living there. You may not be welcome. I beseech you to stay. We have plenty of houses and the soil is fertile. It would be wonderful to have you all join our little community.”

  I knew Father had set his heart on reaching the lake, and I knew he was as stubborn as a mule.

  I tried reasoning. “Please, Father, I think this place is perfect. At least let us stay for a year or two and then, when we know the country better, we could move on to the lake more safely.”

  As I feared, he wouldn’t budge, but at least he said we could stay for three days to give my blister a chance to heal. Naheed and Fatimah chose to accept the offer as they feared the twins would never be able to walk so far.

  Tom and I were devastated, but no amount of tears or persuasive arguments would change Father’s decision. We enjoyed our stay with Nathaniel, who seemed to know every animal, bird and flower in the neighbourhood. He had some books with pictures of the local flora and fauna, which I found interesting and scary in equal measure.

  It was with great sadness that we said goodbye to our friends, who’d become like family during our odyssey. We thanked Nathaniel, who had kindly given Father an old rucksack for our few possessions as we set off once again. The land was r
olling scrub, but there always seemed more climbing than descent. At one point, we heard a deep rumbling sound which soon changed to loud trumpeting and crashing branches as a herd of elephants caught our scent on the breeze. I was thankful for the gun, but although Father raised it in readiness, the herd settled and we shrank away into the long grass. My muscles ached but I felt stronger than on our first day’s trek and at least my blister was comfortable and nearly healed.

  We started to look for somewhere to spend the night. There were no missionaries to rescue us this time. We came across occasional villages, but any thatched huts had completely disintegrated, and the more modern houses with galvanised roofs had broken windows. Human bones were commonplace, both inside these ruins and often scattered on the ground where animals had left them. Father kept hoping we would find an intact house and ignored our request for rest.

  As we were walking along an overgrown dirt road, we came across three graves marked with crosses situated just outside an old wall. There was a gate that was locked. Father knocked, even though we could see that the house was twenty metres away. Of course, there was no answer. He called out. Silence. In the end, he lifted me up and I climbed over the gate and opened it from the inside. It was a single-storey house built with breeze blocks and a corrugated iron roof. We knocked on the door. No one came. Father tried the door. It too was locked. The strange thing was that there were vegetables and maize growing in the garden. We walked around the back of the house, looking to see if a window had been left open. Sadly, they were all locked shut. Inside looked clean and I could see four inviting beds. We rounded the last corner and were met with a double-barrelled shotgun being pointed at us by an elderly black woman.

  “Get your hands up and stay where you are. I don’t take kindly to trespassers. What are you doing here?”

  I was pleased she too spoke English. She sounded fierce but looked like a frail grandmother with only a couple of wonky teeth which must have been worse than useless.