Homeward bound on return voyages
from the western countries were a joyous affair to be sure. After being away
from your beloved own land, a return was something all looked forward to
without exception. This was especially so after rounding the Cape of Good Hope,
some might term it as a calling. Even though over five and a half thousand
nautical miles still yet to steam, at lest the ship was in the same ocean/water
as Rangoon. All onboard knows this as the seas were always rough in spring,
summer, autumn or winter: this is where the waters of Atlantic and Indian
Oceans meet and our ship would roll twenty to thirty degrees from side to side
and the waves outside were not a sight to behold, not mentioning the sharks in
their wolf packs looking for easy meals.
Still, all bit the bullets and prayed for calmer waters that should arrive
in a few days. Our dining experiences rounding the Cape were never eaten in
style either, the tablecloths maybe white but they were purposely wetted and
the tables were rimmed to guard our plates and cutleries remained on the tables
that were battened down together with chairs we sat on to the deck. Sounds of
creaking from don’t know where, doors slamming, pots and pans clanking and all
sort of noises fill the ship while rounding. A stereophonic experience to be
sure.
This was the time to switch on
the saloon’s radio to listen to hi-fi transmission pop songs on FM (frequency
modulated) from Cape Town Springbok Radio while eating and also search for our
native BBS (Burma Broadcasting Service) on high frequency when the sun was no
more and the weather was kind enough.
Even though we still may have been eighteen days away from our homeport,
it was always nice to hear the faint on and off sounds of hsaing waing (Burmese
traditional symphony) before the daily 2000 hours news broadcast in the
evenings. Heads would be pressed together to the radio and the slight faint
broadcast of BBS would put an anxious smile to our faces no matter the weather
outside. No heads or tails were able to be made good on our ears: no matter,
but we at least could hear and sense home was only in days now. After dinner
periods when all officers left the saloon, it was the turn of the stewards who
would do likewise and pass the news through out their aft quarters that home
was within reach and the ship had passed midnight hour. Hallelujah!
This first faint sound of home on
the radio would gel our own thoughts of our last port of call for the voyage
and envisage what we would do on arrival there. From then on discussions would
be tweeted and munched amongst ourselves on matters relating to leave,
girlfriends, marriage, childbirth, house and a million other things playing on
our minds. We felt that high rolling waves and strong cold winds from the east
and west, all at the same time at the Cape was a small price to be paid, but
felt good the ship was at last making for Rangoon. With an average speed of
twelve knots per hour, another week would pass before passing Reunion Island,
our last landfall before home port with only a glance of the said island from
miles away. The dreaded west bound voyages were not liked by most as sea time
of twenty-four days at a stretch subject to one day bunkering port on route was
too long and European ports were expensive, not to mention the people, culture
and the food. A few old seadogs do savor these long voyages view force saving
of money and drawing large sums at home port was a delight to them.
The seas were calmer and no more
horses on the surfaces of the water with the ship steaming calmly homeward
bound. Days and nights were warmer meaning the rig of the day was white again
coupled with more work and attention to our uniforms. We were posed questions
abound whether the sea passages were boring. To the contrary, life at sea was
full with respective responsible watches to muster and maintenance to be carried
out, at times not enough hours remaining for oneself. Another week and a half
passes by till abeam of Sri Lanka and crossing the Equator that called for a
celebration. During my first voyage to the west, I had to ring the anchoring
bell at the bow being the youngest onboard to let know King Neptune that our
ship crossed the Equator. Eight bells I strike at midnight and the crew
arranged an U Shwe Yoe dance troupe (Burmese traditional Chaplinesque comedy
dance), that signaled for contribution of beer cans from Officers and Engineers
plus also a party of our own to drink away the hot humid night with songs and
dance.
By this time, the transmission
from the BBS was clearer on the medium wave, however the novelty had worn off.
We all still listen to the radio during meal times but not as eager as
previously. Rangoon was about four days away once passing Sri Lanka, a stone
throw away in seamen terms and other important things were on our young minds.
We still had to make decisions on items we were going to include in our baggage
and things we were willing to leave in our cabins. Goods in the baggage were
prone to Custom duties depending on the examination officer and a few things in
our cabins may over ride Custom duties, however also prone to ‘gifts’ to them
or be seized at its worst. We would purchase a few items such as ladies Tricel
sweaters and cosmetics from London for resale in Rangoon. The profit margins
were not bad but unable compare to margins on the East run to Singapore, Hong
Kong and Japan. The jokes onboard were shortage of batteries for our
calculators due to insistence calculations on possible money to be made. Those
were the days.
Usually we would arrive at
Rangoon Pilot Station in the evenings for entry into the river early next
morning in time for the flood tide at monkey point to free our draft of 27 feet
9 inches from the muddy bottom. The colour of the water here was chocolaty
which was reassuring, however thinking of the ‘rats’ made us want to sail out
again as the encounters were rather taxing while maintaining our plastic smiles
at best. Rats were the names we gave to the rummaging Custom Officials boarding
our ships in the river before berthing similarly to that animal that would seek
and look at every small cracks and take whatever was on hand. Their uniforms
were baggy khaki shorts always able absorb a few cartons of cigarettes or
whisky bottles without changing its shape. I suppose it was a game of cat and
mouse in the end. Should one does not leave anything in our something to hide.
It does leave a distasteful pungent taste in our mouths while trying to
maintain our cool. The horrid game continued …..
After safe arrival at home port,
our jobs were not an end: the welcoming sea gulls and the sight of small wooden
fishing boats were only flash in the pan. We still needed for the items to be
landed and be sold. With the money obtained, buy back U$ Dollars and Pound
Sterling from the black market in preparation for the next trip likely
expenses, in addition to personal matters: all to be sorted out within a total
ten days port stay. This type of commercial downturn for the general public
does not happen anywhere else, even India. Thinking back, I have no alternative
but to blame it squarely on our poor economic conditions led by bad stewardship
of the authorities. Unknowingly we were slowly being turned into sailors cum
traders, so once again we were back to square one of the beginning of shipping.
It seems history repeating
itself.
QED
