Circle the Globe 1977 - 78
From Downunder to Up Top.
Turned up to work,
a normal day supposedly,
the boss calls me in,
Chief Petty Officer Brown,
grumpy old salt,
grey before his time.
"Zander, you're off to Scotland,
picking up the new ship"
I stagger back, 'cheers Chief'
turn tail and tell my mates,
spend the next five days
sorting out business.
Fly to Singapore,
get drunk on the plane
with some Army boys,
show me around Boogie Strasse,
the depths of Sembawang,
drink Tiger Beer 'til sunrise,
poolside.
Arrival in Up Top
Fly from Singapore over lush
green
of South East Asia and India,
soon replaced by the stark
brown
of Pakistan, Afghanistan
and Iranian desert,
touchdown for five hours
in Bahrain sandpit,
kick sand pebbles on burnt
tarmac
under the gaze of kalishnikovs.
Fifteen hours later,
arrive in Heathrow, London,
new culture, punk rock revolution,
a stopover that soon drags
to nine hours,
seems air traffic control
in Glasgow
loves to strike,
catch a flight to cold Scotland.
Everything is grey or mottled
green,
brick red edifices dyed emerald
with moss and lichen,
the drizzle a constant reminder
of the proximity of the arctic
circle,
find a hotel and await a
ship.
Make it onboard, large, white,
not exactly new but refurbished,
still an imposing figure
on the Clyde,
not as imposing as the "World
Score"
an oil tanker under construction
behind us,
many football fields, and
utterly huge.
Journey to the Antipodes
Part One, Bonny Scotland
All journeys back have a
start,
Gourock, home of the dockyards
Celtic Football country,
Irish Jocks everywhere,
volatile men, warm women,
many cold nights in cosy
pubs
and copious Guinness down
the hatch.
It can only last a few months
though,
a few sightseeing trips to
Glasgow,
Socky Hall Street mainly,
sailors playground,
also oggling around ancient
Ayr,
a trip to Edinburgh by train,
a memory ruined by swilling
premium Scotch.
Look behind, the coast dies
away,
the stark harsh reality of
Bonny Scotland
burns out of sight,
and the rough North Sea takes
over,
stomachs lurch their way
across
to the locks of Holland,
up a river to the waiting
port of Amsterdam.
Part Two - Dutch
culture.
Makes for good reading,
New Zealand, originally a
Dutch name
a warm welcome and the key
to the city,
do as we please,
and there is so much pleasure
there,
Canal Street, the street
of brothels
and window shopping a sight
for sore eyes.
Walk past cafes that smell
very quaintly of marijuana,
some try, not me, I like
my beer,
Heineken is the flavour of
the scene,
amazing what you buy drunk,
amazing what you can carry!
Wake in the morning,
a hangover, and a bed full
of Tulip bulbs,
an oil painting of a Dutch
windmill in winter,
find an empty packet of condoms
and a pocket empty of Guilder,
write a letter home,
'Mum, dig the garden, I have
something.'
Next day, a bizarre event,
a truck turns up on the wharf
with a gorgeous blonde in
riding gear,
wants to know if anyone wishes
to ride to the Heineken brewery
and sup of the local ale
straight from the vat?
Fifty sailors spent the day
behind
a very entertaining host,
the view from behind very
Dutch,
the ride back however,
a disaster, people taking
wrong roads
something to do with the
beer intake,
everyone made it back, just.
Part Three - English Fare
Sailed south east from the
locks
of Amsterdam, a rough North
Sea,
ships locked in turmoil
tossed like matchwood,
we steamed straight into
it,
Heineken guts spilling out
to feed deep sea Blue Cod.
Made landfall at Englands
ancient port,
Portsmouth, on the south
coast,
Naval base of centuries,
Drake and the likes,
old stone cottages, and equally
old pubs,
nine in all in a short walk
from the base gates down
to
The Jolly Sailor guarding
Pub Row's end.
England, after Holland, is
as grey
as the dirty grey of Scotland,
yet the people as warm,
spent time in nearby towns
imbibing the local delights,
equally delightful women,
the likes sailors go after
at night.
Took a train to Southhampton,
visited the Old Dell, the
inner castle,
supped at the oldest pub
in England,
managed to buy some trinkets
for the whanau back home,
soccer scarves and hats mainly,
swaggered home, on a drunk
train.
One of lifes little indiscretions,
made a drunken fool of myself,
in Portsmouth, three days
in London,
viewing the River Thames
and Tower Bridge,
from the safety of the guardrail,
while all my mates swigged
Tennants Lager
and waltzed London lasses
with glee.
Got my chance, with my uncle,
a whistle stop tour of the
cities delights,
then down to Kent, near the
Marine Barracks
to see another family member
and indulge in traditional
English fare,
dropped off with farewells
and see you soons, with thank
you's.
The next few days were an
alcoholic haze,
a catch up in rum technology,
I drop into the sordid side
of life,
a sailors hangover only comes
when he sails from port,
that realisation came with
the thrum
of engines and a bridge passing
over.
Part Four - Le Mediterranee
That Bay of Biscay has an
awesome reputation,
said to be one of the roughest
areas around,
stood up to its reputation
and once more wretched sailors
trying to recover their composure,
lost meals to gravity,
but out the other end, Gibraltar.
Sailed into the mouth of
the largest sea
in the known world, immense,
a little turn left and the
tip of Spain,
that ancient entity of English
rule,
isolated by Jose and Juanita,
a rock fortress and Naval
Base
protecting trade routes and
Blighty.
Protecting too, the grave
of that man,
Lord Nelson lies there, buried
but not forgotten, and as
sailors
we go to his grave and pay
tribute,
then off to the mountain
top, the monkeys
followed by the markets,
and sidewalk cafes and bars.
Many strange sights here,
a cultural mish mash,
cultural Spain, drear Britannia,
a sixteen year old girl walking
a Great Dane
elicits a broad baritone
of sailor banter,
the girl oblivious to the
excitement
of the obvious sign of Boy
Dog.
Once again, Spanish Schnapps,
some Pilsenners Beer, and
good old Navy Rum
have us leaving Gibralter
with fond
yet very lost memories,
the ship leaves the cote
d'azur behind,
across a peaceful expanse
of blue sea,
'til the peaks of the French
Alps appear.
From sea, dotted white washed
buildings
and highrise stainless steel,
a mixture of the very ancient
and very new,
through a small gut into
a spreading marina,
berthed under the glare of
Frenchmen
and foreign tourists alike,
seemingly indistinguishable.
Monte Carlo is movie star
town,
the play place of the rich
and famous,
how would they take to South
Sea's sailors
walking their avenues, supping
of the vino?
First few days are spent
sightseeing,
mopeds to Italy on the autobahn,
looking over Jacques Coustaeu's
museum.
Even a chance meeting with
the man himself,
smallish, but very much the
sailor, adventurer,
look at Rainier's castle,
and Chanel's factory,
a roman ruin, the home of
a triumvirate,
some stand in awe it still
stands,
sober sailors wonder at the
state of parties,
the actions of drunken roman
gladiators.
Then it's to the world famous
casino,
very exquisite, noone gambles,
need thousands to place a
bid,
and sailors know where thousands
is better spent,
so off to the wine bars,
drink French plonk
like water, and measure the
effects,
see some walking on their
hands back home.
One lucky film star was given
the royal salute present
bums,
rather than be horrified,
out with camera,
lines up five sailors on
an opulent street,
gets them to all do the salute,
then invites them and as
many as possible
back to her apartment, party
time.
It is christmas day in four
days time,
suddenly, trails of dirt
from large pot plants
lead their way up the gangplank
and down to messes for future
use,
the ships siren announces
departure
and Monte Carlo slips away,
a christmas tree proudly
displayed on each mast.
Part Five - Desert
meets the Sea
Across the base of Greece,
no landfall
a stern breeze from the cold
north
whipping waves side on,
Christmas Day, with Roast
New Zealand lamb,
Pavlova, and cold Steinlager
beer,
trees stripped of foliage
from the wind
still manage to uphold a
nativity spirit.
Landfall one night, well
a city anyway,
many many ships at anchor,
alight
the lights of Cairo glow
in the distance,
we sail to the head of the
queue,
guide ship for a passage
through Suez,
but first, we wait a day,
for more ships,
to make a convoy worthwhile.
At anchor by the desert brown
of Egypt,
dreaming of the Valley of
the Kings
and the Pyramids in the near
distance,
meanwhile, Bumboats ply their
trade,
dates, trinkets, clothes,
and sailors
lap 'em up, haul their wares
in buckets
stow them away, a few dollars
down.
A local magician, the Gulli
Gulli man,
entertains all in the midday
sun,
with tricks of dexterity
and guile,
wrist watches thrown overboard
only to appear on someone
elses arm,
the crowd applauds every
effort
and soon the locals leave,
the sun goes down.
Place a big searchlight on
the bow,
lead off the convoy into
the gut,
the seperation between Israel
and Egypt,
where rusting hulks bare
testament
to the Six Day War ten years
before,
we pass, under the gaze of
tanks buried
into the immense fortification
banks.
The whistling! We paint ship
bare to our waists,
the sun drying immediately
our efforts
and the Egytian soldiers
whistle
all the way along the Suez,
an eerie feeling made more
foreboding
by Russian tank barrels poking
at us,
still the spirit of Kiwi
happiness pervades.
Soon Port Said appears, the
southern port,
see a hospital and other
tall buildings
still pockmarked with shell
holes,
another legacy of a time
hence,
appears no reparation being
made
to bring the future into
play,
to hide the sins of the past.
Out into the Persian Gulf,
and long fine days, no wind
nothing to hint at the troubled
zones
that lay to the north, Iran
and Iraq,
but the presence of a Russian
Patrol boat
anchored and painting ship
mid-ocean,
we surprise them, catch them
unaware.
Part Six - The East
Standing on the forecastle
looking ahead,
see a brown haze, and then
the smell,
still twenty six miles out
from Bombay,
hear on the news a KLM 747
crashed
at Bombay Airport that evening,
a sense of foreboding overwhelms,
what to expect from this
country?
It's a busy shipping port,
chocker
many ships, many nationalities,
and the wharves ring to the
sounds
of accents from Scandinavia
to Japan,
set the ratguards on the
lines, doubled
a representative of the Navy
comes aboard,
tells us lowly sailors where
to keep away from.
Of course, the first night
was mapped out,
all the spots mentioned,
visited,
weak Indian beer consumed
voraciously,
in a brothel, a couple of
Kiwi girls,
an Australian and an English
girl,
working their way around
the world,
in fact, very few locals
seemed to be there.
Walking down the street with
two friends,
these poor kids in rags begging
for morsels,
we've been told not to give
money, trouble,
but one friend is racked,
passes a rupee,
and suddenly we are inundated,
utterly,
manage to get a taxi, window
is half down
and as we drive, a baby is
pushed at us.
By night I keep watch on
the gangway,
watch the Rat Pack, skinny
emaciated dogs
roam the wharves looking
for fodder,
plenty around, some bigger
than the dogs
that chase them, one the
size of a rubbish tin,
just as well the beer is
weak, ineffective,
wouldn't want to pass out
anywhere.
New Years Eve meant the age
old tradition,
when in port, take some beer,
and visit
every ship you can and toast
the occasion,
beer, the language of indifference,
everyone friendly and open,
sailors celebrating another
year passed,
another year safely negotiated
of storms.
Soon the misery of a mysterious
land passes,
across the southern tip of
Asia,
to Singapore, Jewel of the
Orient,
I revisit my previous escapades
here,
find new bars, new hotels,
and drinks
by a swimming pool that I
make mine,
bought a camera duty free,
a watch too.
Played some sport for the
first time in ages,
the New Zealand Army garrison
stationed
at Dieppe Barracks, rugby,
soccer, pool,
some real Kiwi beer again,
like water
in the tropical cauldron
that saps sweat,
made it to the Melbourne
Bar, the Jockey Club,
Boogie Street, all good Singaporean
names.
Part Seven - Homeward
Ho
Slipped past Indonesia with
Asia passing,
passage for Cairns, subtropical
Aussie,
slipped into the oil berth,and
a naval base
sitting right next door,
ready for us,
a customs officer advises
no food
to be taken ashore, the law,
someone asks if we can defecate?
Been six weeks since fresh
milk
so contrary to nautical tradition,
the first port of call is
a Milkshake bar,
many pies and milkshakes
later,
the sights and sounds of
Northern Queensland
are lapped up to extreme,
every bar a den of supercharged
drinking.
The Great Barrier Reef soon
gives way
to the familiar smell of
the Tasman Sea,
and homesick sailors ready
gifts,
fill in Custom declarations,
eat like kings and drink
like fish
to get rid of all consummables
before passing into familiar
waters.
We look longingly at the
landmarks
as we pass down familiar
coasts,
the impact of a journey past
being washed away by the
future,
family, loved ones, new babies
for some,
maybe even the odd divorce
or two,
sailors always wax silent
in this time.
The band plays M-I-C-K-E-Y
M-O-U-S-E
as the navy's newest ship
berths,
scores of people wave flags
and children,
sailors yell greetings, nudging
each other,
the gangplank gives way to
exodus,
some coming up, some going
down
all meeting in the union
of togetherness.
My dad and sister meet me,
to take me home,
I have leave, and a few full
suitcases,
we get back to my folks place,
all the family are there,
waiting,
suitcase one, dolls from
every port
for my sisters, for my brother
carvings
and trinkets, from exotic
places.
Suitcase two, my mothers
painting,
the tulip bulbs since confiscated
by Customs,
for my Dad, special drink
glasses from
ports where glasses were
sold,
but last, for Mum, an old
dark suitcase
filled with an ashtray from
every pub
and bar or cafe from every
port.
For myself, well I ended
up with my schoolmates,
partying the weekend with
a prize bottle,
one gallon of British Navy
Rum from Gibralta,
the best Rum in the world
it's said,
my friends agreed, we had
a ball,
and when they asked me where
I went,
I told
them the same story as you have just read.
