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Pirates in the Land of Sind.(Kenya's North Coast)
I take advantage of the predictable Northeast Monsoon to land on a beach just north of the Tomb of the Seven Virgins, an ancient column near Ras Tenewe. Not far, there are the ruins of a 13th century Arab villa. You can still see the mosaic floor. The villa is now inhabited by a large colony of monitor lizards, the size of a small crocodiles. There is hardly any wind and only a light surge hisses on the beach. In a few minutes Saidi, the witch doctor takes me to what's left of Bunny Allen's camp. After the hunting ban, Bunny got chucked out and poachers moved in and massacred the elephant population with automatic weapons.
The poachers have moved out of the area and I hear an elephant trumpeting. Great, one of my big questions has been answered. Now, we have to hurry and rendezvous with Osman and his band of pirates.
My only navigation tool is a hand-held compass. The 30 horsepower outboard hums and the 11 foot Zodiak skims the nearly flat sea. Soon, we can no longer see the shore. At noon the wind picks up. It's not much of a bother as we are heading southwest. At one o'clock I spot a sail on the horizon. If I haven't screwed up, it would be Osman. If I did, I have a witch doctor as insurance.
The machua (small dhow) is the right one. We pull alongside and clamber aboard taking the inflatable dinghy in tow.
Osman is a dour Bajun nahoda (captain) who runs a tight ship. Tea is brewing on a brazier and I enjoy munching on some dried fish and washing it down with tea. Our destination is a secret harbor used by smugglers. Osman's day job is fishing. The boat smells of fish and the quilt patchwork of the huge, ancient lateen sail speaks of poverty and hardship.
At closer inspection, gunnysacks sown into the sail make it look ratty. The crew is much larger that that of a fishing boat. Osman never raises his voice and almost whispers his commands to the helmsman who does the shouting.
A few hours later, with the sun already low over the African continent, we approach a mangrove coast peninsula. On the charts it's called Mto Kilifi. Strange to call a peninsula a river.
"Now, get off my boat and follow me. Big danger ahead," Osman tells me in a simple Swahili I can understand.
Sure enough. We're heading straight for a beach with raging surf. In the dinghy, I start the engine, release the towline and follow Osman.
Waves grow in size. The machua rolls wildly enough to cause the sail to snap. We go through the foamy surfline. Osman makes a sharp turn to port and now parallels the beach. On my left, huge waves crash over an unseen bank. But we sail in a narrow deep channel. Soon we enter a tunnel of huge mangrove trees. The sound of furious waves fades and is replaced by the pinging song of kingfishers.
We are inside a narrow river. Several dhows stand tied to the steep, sandy banks. They are loading mangrove poles, a highly prized construction material in the Arab peninsula. Its export is prohibited here.
That night, with a full moon, the crews in the harbor get together for a feast of rice and fish cooked in coconut milk. After the sumptuous meal, they dance and sing.
It is Christmas eve.
