“One who generalises, generally lies,” was a life-lesson imparted to me by my eldest brother when I was a boy. As I travelled the world for fifteen years as a young marine engineer, the wisdom of this aphorism was repeatedly validated. I realised that we are too quick to form an opinion about entire nationalities and ethnic groups based on our interaction with a handful of people from these groups. Thankfully, over time, I learned to treat each person as an individual and not as the representative of a larger unseen group.
Sometime in the early 90s, my ship called at Tripoli in Lebanon (not to be confused with Tripoli, Libya.) The ship’s agent, the link between the ship and the outside world, arrived on board as soon as the gangway was down.
“Captain, please – for God’s sake – always go ashore in groups of five or more,” he instructed. Then holding an imaginary pistol to his temple, he said, “You could be shot if you walk around on your own.”
On hearing this, my mental calculus ran thus:
Perhaps there was a stray incident or two when some lone sailors got caught in the crossfire of the civil war that had ended at the beginning of the decade. The agent was extrapolating those incidents to arrive at a generalisation. That couldn’t be right. I will take my chances.
While working on ships, I generally went ashore on my own other than on the few occasions when my family was with me. I have nothing against company. But I struggled to keep up with the carousal of the typical sailor on shore leave. I was a misfit in this department and have always been fascinated by diverse cultures, preferring to immerse myself in the social milieu of the country I was visiting. My modus operandi in a foreign port normally followed a pattern:
- Find a local taxi driver with some conversational English skills
- Ask the price for touring the city for two hours and agree to it without bargaining
- Ask the driver to go to the following places in town
- The highest point
- Locality where the poor live
- Locality where the wealthy live
- The most important place of worship
- Town centre and other places of interest.
As I looked around for a taxi, a man approached me. He put his hand in his trouser pocket as if to withdraw something. I was sure my end was imminent and was wishing I had heeded the agent’s advice to avoid traveling alone. Fortunately, the thing the stranger extracted from his pocket was not a pistol, but a pack of cigarettes. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth in one fluid motion and struck an imaginary match, locking eyes with me in silent enquiry.
I found my English speaking taxi driver soon enough. Over the next couple of hours I absorbed Tripoli, its souks, minarets and ancient citadel. Ambling along after the tour, I noticed abandoned trains, some half destroyed, some intact. Entire families lived in them. I walked as close to the carriages as was possible without invading the privacy of its residents. The delicate, almost ethereal beauty of the women with eyes the blue-grey of the Mediterranean sea, remains with me to this day. I can still hear the peals of laughter of the children as they played hide and seek behind the wheels and springs of carriages. Although they were in tatters, shod in broken shoes, they wore the cheer of a carefree life. For a moment, I stood still to capture every detail on the canvas of my mind. I knew I could never forget that scene. It was a poignant sight, symbolising the travails inflicted on a people by a long drawn out civil war – as if they were preparing to restart a journey that had stalled many years ago.
I reached the town as the muezzin’s melodious call to prayer and the setting sun rendered the
evening a shade melancholic. However, the people smiled and nodded at me in the streets. A
small café that hired out hookahs to its customers, looked particularly inviting. I walked in. Although I don’t understand Arabic, the owner and waiters made me welcome with broad smiles and oft-repeated hand to heart gestures.
I ordered a hookah and sweet coffee. The aroma of fragrant tobacco melded with the bonhomie in the café. Food started appearing on the table although I hadn’t ordered any.
Someone fished out a chessboard from behind the counter and we played a couple of games while a lilting Lebanese tune filled the space. All the while, total strangers interrupted with suggestions of better, more strategic moves. They were treating me as one of their own. Soon, it turned dark. I prepared to settle the bill and walk back to my ship. But the owner wouldn’t
take my money.
“No, no, friend! No money!” he said solemnly with his palm to his chest. He gestured that I should wait, brought his battered car around and asked me to get in, miming his intention to drop me off at my ship.
We drove past the train coaches with dim flickering lights and improvised chimneys emitting thick black smoke into the moonlit night. I imagined the women I had seen earlier, toiling in
their makeshift kitchen. The canopy of brilliant stars on that clear night
was stretched like a protective cocoon over the train people. I felt safe and knew that I too was protected. No sniper was waiting to gun me down.
gopistory.com 
Leave a comment