July 3, 2011

NASSAU, BAHAMAS

Had Rising Tide duty last night. I am starting to carry the camera along with me to take photos during my day as I am able. Of course, I didn’t think of it while I was on duty last night….met two Ethiopians who are traveling with us. Brothers, Galeas and Abdul, that now live in the U.S. . One of them lives in Orlando, the other in Texas. Very nice gentlemen, we had a great time talking. They were fascinated by my experiences in Somalia in the Marines and laughed a lot when I told them about the Ethiopian women making me goat stew in Mogadishu. It was fresh goat…I saw it killed. Told them the story of John, my interpreter and friend in Somalia.

Since apparently our involvement in Somalia is only in Advanced Study History books, I might as well tell it here.

When we got to Mogadishu the port was enclosed in an orange wall of container boxes. The kind that you see in ports that carry goods from country to country. Only there were no goods in them, nor had there been for a long time. They were stacked two high around the perimeter of the port compound the Marines used as a base. Regardless of the height, or their lack of hands, on some, the children of Mogadishu would climb these containers and sit on top watching us.

As familiarity bred contempt they came up with the idea of using Marines as target practice for their slingshots…at which they were experts. It was a Somali form of Nintendo. There was a young Marine in my unit who was so small I am surprised he actually was allowed in. The smallest uniform and helmet on him still made him look like a turtle. This young man was from the back woods of West Virginia, or Tennessee, or some such place, with an accent broad as the “crick” that he used to fish in. He was a great favorite as a target as when he was hit he would rip off his helmet and gear, throw them to the ground and start yelling “Cum ‘ere, yoo li’l basterds, cum ‘ere”. This they found enormously funny, and they would run away laughing, (we also were laughing, or trying not to), until he got his uniform back on and they would return and ding him again with the pebbles.

Truth is, there was no way he could have been injured. He was covered in Kevlar from head to toe, like the turtle I mentioned, and I told him so. I said “watch this”, and took a chair, set it in the middle of the courtyard they had been surrounding, took out a book and began to read. The pebbles and rocks were soon flying. Ding, ding, ding, they hit my helmet and vest. Nonchalantly I continued to read as though I were on the couch at home. Turning pages, yawning. The rocks came more insistently. Ding, ding, ding. It began to look like a rock quarry around me. They were furious. Here was a Marine who was not yelling at them. Indeed, barely seemed to notice they were there. Intolerable!

Finally the rocks began to slacken, and I stood up, remembering a phrase I had read many years before, “Allah illa Allah”, “There is no God But Allah”. Amazed, they stopped and beckoned me closer. “You Christian”, they asked? I mentally shrugged, and said “No”.

“You Muslim?”

Figuring all religions are one in essence, I said “Yes”.

“What is your name?”

“Michael”

“Michael no good, Michael Christian name…your name is Mohammed”

At this point of the story Abdul and Galeas broke into laughter, finding the idea of a 6’2” blond bearded, blue eyed Mohammed to be very funny.

From this point on the boys referred to me as Mohammed, and would come running to me with their problems. There was one young man, named John, who was half Somali, half Ethopian, and had been attending the University before the civil war broke out. He spoke English and became a pro tem interpreter for us. He actually spoke six languages in total. He became my translator and started teaching me Somali.

One evening, as the sun was setting upon this benighted country, the children started dancing. I remember I was sitting on some old iron beams that were meant to be the struts of a building. John was sitting next to me.

“Do you know why they are dancing/” he asked.

“No, why?”

“They are dancing for you, a traditional tribal dance.”

Surprised I asked why.

“They want all Americans to leave, but they want you to stay.” When I again asked why that was he replied, “You are the only American they have met that is interested in learning their language and learning about them.”

I will never forget that moment. They continued to stamp their bare feet on the ground and clapping in rhythm as they danced, and the sun set.

That night there was a firefight in the market, where John slept in a cardboard box he called home. I never saw him again, and can only assume the worst. Of course, many of those children I am sure also died in the ensuing years, or even became some of the pirates we see terrorizing the Indian Ocean shipping. But I will never forget their dancing for me, the smell of the dust they raised and the way it filmed as the last of the evening light died, or John.

Abdul and Galeas were moved by the tale, and then laughed as they left the Rising Tide, calling me Mohammed. I am sure that at some point during the week I will hear that name ring out as I am walking through the Promenade.

Last night I was thinking of my Grandmother a lot. She was such an intrepid and inveterate traveler. I think she would be very happy that I am working on a cruise ship. She would have loved the Oasis of the Seas.

Once again, I am not getting off the ship while we are in port…we have Dreamworks Parade rehearsal. I don’t mind. This is going to be one heck of a parade, as I mentioned before. We premiere it this Friday evening, so this will be our last rehearsal before we open. I assume that next time I will be able to get off in the Bahamas…