Open Writing

Chapter 21
Chance Encounter

There was much about Lamu which had changed since Jamila
and I spent a glorious honeymoon there. No longer a quiet little
backwater, the island now seemed overrun by tourists. Gone was the
low cost accommodation and hippy clientele, replaced by all too familiar
hotel developments and the chic set. It smelled of money and
the atmosphere was not as relaxed and laid back as I remembered it
which I lamented. But nowhere stands still. The number of secret
hideaways in the world is shrinking fast and Kenya’s were no exception.
I stayed two nights, one to recover from the London to Nairobi
leg of the journey.

During this time I was able to negotiate a fair price for my
planned dhow ride to Kaambooni. As expected, knowledge of Swahili
helped. The old man who agreed to ferry me north greeted me
with a toothless grin when I handed him a bottle of Gordon’s. He
looked askance at the six pack of tonics. To sustain us, I brought
along enough roasted kuku45 to share with him and his one man
crew, a virtual sack load of locally produced cashew nuts and some
dried coconut. For myself I’d purchased bottled water as I wasn’t
persuaded by my skipper’s definition of ‘potable.’

We hugged the coast all night and well into the blistering heat of
the next day. There isn’t much privacy on board a dhow. When you
have to go, you have to go, so to speak. My Kenyan friends thought
nothing of dropping their pants and shifting their arses over the side
when their bowels dictated. The men hung easily on to deck ropes
fitted for the purpose. When my turn came I cringed with embarrassment
but as compensation there is a certain sense of freedom in
dropping one’s guts in the vastness of ocean.

I got to know those guys pretty well during the voyage. We shared
jokes and songs. I enjoyed their happy-go-lucky conviviality, admired
their seamanship, and felt a real warmth towards them. I hoped I
might have the pleasure of their company again on the return journey.

They told me not to worry about fixing a time. They plied these
waters a couple of times a week, they said. I could always leave word
with Kaambooni fishermen when I wanted to head back to Lamu.
They would get my message.

Although the town sat close to the Kenya border I was intrigued
how little Swahili was spoken there. It was as if someone had drawn
an invisible curtain and declared Somali was now the language of
choice. I deployed a ragged mixture of English and Swahili to get by.

The MaanSoor Hotel in the middle of town was dreary but spotlessly
clean. This would be my headquarters. The place from which I
would launch my last search for Amina. I realised that I was relying a
lot on the accuracy of The Times’ report following her act of piracy.
If she had any sense she would not have revealed her exact location;
but I had to start somewhere.

In England I’d laminated a dozen copies of the newspaper article.
I began to ask around. Did anyone recognise the woman in the picture?
No one seemed to. I left copies in bars, in better though hardly
salubrious hotels, in the few shops which just about passed muster as
‘supermarkets.’ I spoke to fishermen (who treated me with suspicion).

I singled out people whom I thought were in Amina’s age
group, and stopped them in the street. Most hurried on, unwilling to
linger in the company of a foreigner. The retiring nature of people
in Kaambooni seemed very different to what I could remember of
Mogadishu residents on my first visit to Somalia.

Kaambooni appeared a strange hideout for someone of Amina’s
education and background, even accepting her criminal background.
Located on a tidal lagoon, it had an air of tranquility but seemed
dead as a door nail. From a distance the deep blue water juxtaposed
kindly against the mainly white painted houses and gave the town a
Mediterranean, almost Greek appearance. Closer inspection revealed
it to be scruffy and run down, which I suppose could only have been
expected given the absence of authority and the lack of any system
of local government. Most streets were heavily potholed. Those few
vehicles to be seen rocked and pitched to such a degree that they had
the appearance of boats on a rough sea, and certainly made slower
progress.

Donkeys were the main mode of transport. Ludicrously loaded
carts were pulled by these animals from pillar to post, under the
whip of their owners. A donkey, I learned, could be bought for thirty
dollars equivalent. In a moment of madness I did so, rather than opt
in my condition, for a bicycle. The proprietors of the MaanSoor Hotel
judged the beast to be a perfectly normal acquisition, and offered
for a minimal consideration, a place to tether it overnight, plus feed.

I named the animal ‘Tony’, and took occasional pleasure when applying
the stick, imagining that I was beating none other than the beaming
Blair himself.

With no joy in the main part of town I began to ride Tony to
outlying areas, starting early in the day to minimise the risk of sunstroke,
resting up well before midday, and resuming my search in the
later afternoon hours. Everywhere I went the story was the same.

No one knew Amina, or would admit to doing so. I began to question,
not for the first time, the sense of my quest. Dalila had been
right. I’d been a bloody fool to come all this way without any sure
game plan. After such a long time, even if by some miracle I met up
with Amina, I surmised she was bound to think it extraordinary, and
bizarre, that I had come to find her at this stage in our lives. ‘So
what?’ she would say. ‘Did you not think I had a life?’

I dwelled for a time again, on what I knew she’d become. It was
hard to understand what could have driven her to lead a life of
crime, if that was what it was. I could only assume that her flight
from Barre’s regime all those years ago, had plunged her from one
desperate situation to another, until a life among villains had become
her lot. Yet in another sense, if The Times had it right, she had also
earned a reputation as someone to be admired among her countrymen
and women. That was more like the Amina I once knew. A
fighter, a thinker, hell, a potential leader!

I stopped to shelter from the heat in the mottled shade of a frangipani
tree. I could smell its delightful blossoms and recalled the day
I had fixed one in Amina’s hair. The one and only time I had kissed
her. Ours had been a tragic affair I thought, so sweet and yet so
fleeting. The distance between us had indeed proved insurmountable
as she had long ago predicted.

Unknowingly at first, I had parked myself across the road from a
little rural school. I drank some water and listened to the sound of
children’s voices singing charmingly out of tune. I decided to get
some shut eye (having taken the precaution beforehand of tying
Tony to the tree). I was awoken all too soon by the sound of a
woman’s voice.

‘Oh, I’m awfie sorry to wake you. I saw you sleeping out here and
wondered if you were okay.’

‘My goodness,’ said I, frankly astounded, stirring myself from the
light slumber. ‘A Scottish voice. That’s nice to hear so far from
home.’

‘Well, likewise,’ said the woman, smiling broadly. ‘And what can
be bringing an east coast man to these parts?’

I didn’t immediately answer her question. She was a good ten
years younger than me. Her auburn hair was beginning to grey, I
noted, and her skin was pale, as if well guarded against the East African
sun. She was short and plump and reminded me of a school
teacher I once knew in Lockerbie. Which was uncanny, because that
is exactly what she was. She’d spied me through a classroom window
of the little school and was sufficiently curious, a white man being a
rare sight in southern Somalia, to venture across for a chat.

‘Annie McInnes,’ she offered, stretching out her hand.

‘Stewart Munro. Pleasure to meet you. I hope I haven’t disrupted
your class,’ I said, pointing towards the school.

‘Not at all. Would you like to come over and meet the children?’
When I entered the single classroom the kids all stood up politely,
their bright brown eyes fixed on mine. They seemed to be all ages,
from perhaps six years old to thirteen or fourteen. I was surprised to
hear Annie address them in what sounded like fluent Somali. She
then broke into English.

‘Now boys and girls, this is Mr Munro from Scotland, which is
also by chance my home country. Would you like to sing him a song.’

Annie’s tone had not requested this, but given an instruction. Off
they went without further ado:

‘We welcome you, we welcome you,
Welcome Mr Munro!
We honour you, we do like you,ooo,ooo, ooo,
Welcome Mr Munrooooooo!’

After which they burst into a round of undeserved applause for
their visitor. I was really touched. Their unbridled enthusiasm, their
bubbling little personalities in start contrast to my fading light,
brought a tear to my eyes. They reminded me so much of Dalila in
her early childhood days.

The children sat down again and got on with writing in their jotters.
Annie offered to show me around. I was curious as we entered a
courtyard which served well as a protected playground and a place
where Annie could keep an eye on all the children at once.

‘Back home, the kids would have broken up for their Christmas
holidays by now. When do you take a break?’

‘Hah!’ Annie exclaimed. ‘Well, obviously Christmas is not a Somali
festival, although like the Scots, they do celebrate New Year in a
big way. And as for the kids, they are so eager to learn. Given a
choice, they’d come here every day, holiday or not.’

‘I’m impressed,’ I replied. ‘You know, I’ve been in Kaambooni for
a few days now and have not once heard English spoken fluently.
Suddenly I stumble across your school where not only do I find a
fellow Scot, but also that her charges have learned well. Congratulations.
I mean it.’

‘They know less than you think, in spite of their energy,’ Annie
said modestly, ‘but I’m making progress with them. As you might
imagine, there isn’t much money around. I do what I can.’

‘What on earth brought you to such an isolated part of the
world? Are you with Save the Children or something?’

‘I asked first.’

‘Sorry?’

‘Not ten minutes ago, I was asking you what had brought an east
coast man here. You didn’t answer me.’

‘It’s quite a long story. The abbreviated version is that I’m looking
for an old friend of mine. Someone that I haven’t seen for many
years. I read something in the UK press which suggested she might
be here or hereabouts.’

‘British?’

‘No, a Somali woman. Her name is Amina. Amina Abdullahi.’

**
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