Page 65 - The Tigris Expedition

The Tigris Expedition
mended by the Norwegian consulate as expedition member to
represent Iraq. At first impression he looked too sophisticated for a
rough sea adventure, but we put him in with HP. Then tired,
i
perspiring persons unknown to me dropped in one by one, seeking
beer, bath and bed after a seven-hour drive in a Baghdad taxi
through a sun-scorched landscape: a German reporter, a press
photographer from the usa, a reporter from Baghdad, a Swedish
journalist, two Norwegian journalists, and another German. Then I
lost track of the newcomers. The peace-loving manager welcomed
them all and some were squeezed into a windowless laundry-closet
on mattresses between towering piles of linen of all sorts that
menaced to collapse and bury them if they snored.
The Garden of Eden Resthousc was virtually bursting from the
inside before the key people had arrived. Apart from the South
American Indians, we expected three Asiatic dhow-sailors from
i
Bombay, and all the expedition members due from Asia, America
and Europe. In panic I got through to the Ministry in Baghdad and
learnt that the country was still closed to tourists and journalists,
but according to their promise they let anybody in who said he was
coming to me. They promised to look at my own list from now on,
but added that other reporters were already on the way.
The mountain Indians were supposed to be driven through the
hot area by night. The sun was burning from the zenith, however,
when a station-wagon rolled up in front of the overcrowded
building and five short and broad men in heavy ponchos of llama
wool and woven caps with ear-flaps tumbled out and embraced me
in silence, giving me the greeting reserved for chiefs, just as they
had done to the King of Norway. They then shook the others’
hands and followed me upstairs, each with a little bag in which I
knew they brought the round water-worn stone and wooden hook,
all they needed for working the ropes and reeds. They all posed in a
row in front of the confounded air-conditioner that now sounded
like the cage of a snarling polar bear, and as they cooled off I
recognised five great friends who began to smile from ear to ear: the
three brothers Juan, Jose and Demetrio Limachi and Paulino Este­
ban, all Aymaras from Suriki Island in Lake Titicaca, and their
Bolivian interpreter, Luis Zeballos Miranda from the Tiahuanaco
Museum in La Paz.
Our stoic Aymara boat-builders showed no sign of surprise
when they entered the Garden of Eden and saw the endless stacks of
reeds. But their eyes grew bigger for a moment, and they tore off
their woollen caps to expose their raven-black hair, when Adam’s
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