Page 189 - Michael Frost-Voyages to Maturity-23531.indd

loss was not extreme. It was, however, something of an ironic theft; the main
export of East Pakistan, being the jute already referred to, was usually delivered
to Dundee, where it was made into various goods, particularly mooring ropes (it
was cheap, strong, flexible and light to handle). But in the 1960s jute was giving
way to polypropylene, cheaper, stronger, more flexible, much lighter, and easier
to manufacture than jute or coir products.

In any event, we were only 500 or so miles from Chittagong, our penultimate
port in South Asia, which probably had available the cheapest supply of mooring
ropes in the world. We arrived on December 20th, a completely inauspicious day;
this was a devoutly Moslem country, and we rightly thought that there would be
absolutely no recognition of Christmas. We were correct.

The days passed slowly. The weather was fiendishly hot, and the ship was in no
manner air-conditioned. We set up a sort of bar and barbecue immediately aft of
the bridge, but as the local cargo-handling facilities were almost entirely limited to
manual labour, of which there was a super-abundance, there was not a moment’s
peace. And other matters came up. I was called down to the gangway on one
occasion because two men had come aboard with a covered hammock, seeking
assistance. I went to the spot, and upon asking what was up was shown that the
hammock contained a very sick man whose friends, the bearers, had smuggled
him aboard for some medical help. Despite my absurd role as the ship’s doctor,
I was quite unable to do anything, for he looked pretty far gone and there was
nothing that I knew to give him. But we gave the men some food and said that
he had to see a doctor. That, in itself, was more than ironic. Britain at that time
was losing doctors fast (to the Americas) and replacing them with Commonwealth
practitioners whose expertise those nations could not afford to lose.

The local agent came aboard the next day and amid the chaos of loading asked
if a few of us would like to go outside the city to see the sights. I swapped my watch
with the second mate and a car that took us some miles into the countryside, in
fact to a rather delightful lake on which we rowed around in a small boat for an
hour or so (a bit of a busman’s holiday, but none the worse for that in the midst of
relative peace and calm). But the general view gained from this day, indeed from
all the days in this benighted country, was of poverty and desperation. I don’t
think that it has ever much improved.

On January 14th, we arrived in Cochin, India, but only for a short time.

It was certainly nicer than Pakistan, but by then, we had all had enough of
the subcontinent.

It was a delight to sail back to the calm and coldness of Europe, essentially
with only one minor incident to disturb the routine. That was when the Serang
came to me to seek some assistance for one of the members of the crew. This poor
man was quite evidently sick, but with no apparent need for anything that we had

188