Page 95 - The Tigris Expedition

The Tigris Expedition

to make me feel like skipper Noah. He was as agile as a monkey,
strong as a tiger, stubborn as a rhinoceros, had a canine appetite and
in a storm could be heard like a trumpeting elephant.
At his side sat our robust Russian bear, Yuri Scnkcvitch, forty
years old, built like a wrestler, as peaceful as a bishop, doctor to
Soviet astronauts, who had also become a popular Moscow tele­
vision announcer since we had last seen him. He had sailed with us
as medical officer on both Ra expeditions and had later turned into a
bit of a globe trotter, introducing the weekly Sunday travel pro­
grammes for a hundred million Soviet television viewers. Yuri
could hardly open his mouth without laughing or cracking a joke.
He said he had acquired this habit when he flew to Cairo to join us
on Ra /: he had emptied half a bottle of Vodka on board the Soviet
aircraft as my letter of invitation to the President of the Soviet
Academy of Sciences had stressed that I wanted a Russian doctor,
but one with a sense of humour.
Carlo Mauri of Italy, in his late forties, had also been with us on
both reed-ship voyages across the Atlantic. Resembling Noah more
than I did, because of his impressive full beard, and being blonder
and more blue-eyed than any Nordic Viking, Carlo was one of
Italy’s most noted mountaineers, a professional alpinist who had
climbed up and down the steepest and highest rock walls in all
continents and hung in more ropes and tied more and better knots
than any man I have known. Latin by temperament, Carlo could
turn from a domesticated lamb into a roaring lion, and the next
moment grab pen and paper to write poetic accounts of his experi­
ences. Carlo could live without food and comfort, but not without a
rope in his hand. He was to take the expedition’s still pictures. And
he was to twist his brain and improvise the most ingenious knots
and criss-cross lashings each time a cabin, a mast foot, or a leg of the
bridge began to wobble and dance.
Detlef Soitzek from Germany I had never known before.
Twenty-six years old, one of the youngest captains in the West
German merchant marine, he was also an enthusiastic sportsman
and a climbing instructor at Berchtesgaden. He was recommended
to me by German friends when I was looking for a good representa­
tive of post-Hitler Germany. Detlef was a naturalist and idealist.
Peace-lover, anti-war, anti-violence, anti-racist. He rarely spoke
without good reason, but was a keen listener and would chuckle
more than any at a good joke.
Gherman Carrasco, fifty-five, industrialist and amateur film
producer from Mexico, was our entertainer. There was no relation-

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