Crossing Hormuz, part two
"What do you want to do? -- I have no desires. None."
Rear deck. I woke to find myself in a solid grey soup. 6 in the morning. An eerie twilight helped to create a truthful rendering of how the crossing of River Styx must have felt. Early morning fog was indistinguishable from the sea. It was still the same heat as yesterday evening. No wind moving. On the rear flag pole an Iranian flag hung lazily above the unassuming wake.
The soup was broken occasionally by dark bulky blots, drifting past. All oil freighters -- STOC Persia. Persian Queen. Hormuz IV – we were obviously now passing along the main road and lifeline of the Iranian economy.
Claus sitting next to me, head hanging, sleeping at one end of the now extremely uncomfortable bench. On surrounding benches other passengers were coming round to see the mist give way to a flat yellow sun disk, horizon and open seas.
Had a nice liquefied white Toblerone for breakfast – teeth biting into nougat and aluminium foil. No coffee or hot water. On Claus’ suggestion I have tea mixed with Nescafe. Taste buds in riot, but the caffeine does its work nicely.
Approaching noon, white light blinds the eyes and obliterates all contrasts. Rapid motor boats criss-cross in between freighters. Iran, Iranians everywhere. The blurred contours of the popular Iranian holiday resort Khesh Island passes by on the port side. Inside in the passenger lounge, children, women and men are astir, gathering belongings and getting ready to disembark. The spectacle is accompanied by pictures on a big TV screen of martyrs from the war with Iraq. These are inserted next to battle footage dubbed with songs of mourning, interspersed are segments with tearful relatives recounting joyful memories of the deceased.
Last visit to the rest rooms to wash hands yet again. More water on the floor than in the Gulf. Behind the doors of eight booths are the holes in the floor that are the single most import reason that Western and Islamic civilisations will never merge.
It is a night mare to get out without having to touch the door handle. I feign to have problems with my zipper in order to let another pass me. He is most courteous and patiently waits till I’m all sorted. I will not touch the handle. I must touch the handle. And so we enter Iran.
Rear deck. I woke to find myself in a solid grey soup. 6 in the morning. An eerie twilight helped to create a truthful rendering of how the crossing of River Styx must have felt. Early morning fog was indistinguishable from the sea. It was still the same heat as yesterday evening. No wind moving. On the rear flag pole an Iranian flag hung lazily above the unassuming wake.
The soup was broken occasionally by dark bulky blots, drifting past. All oil freighters -- STOC Persia. Persian Queen. Hormuz IV – we were obviously now passing along the main road and lifeline of the Iranian economy.
Claus sitting next to me, head hanging, sleeping at one end of the now extremely uncomfortable bench. On surrounding benches other passengers were coming round to see the mist give way to a flat yellow sun disk, horizon and open seas.
Had a nice liquefied white Toblerone for breakfast – teeth biting into nougat and aluminium foil. No coffee or hot water. On Claus’ suggestion I have tea mixed with Nescafe. Taste buds in riot, but the caffeine does its work nicely.
Approaching noon, white light blinds the eyes and obliterates all contrasts. Rapid motor boats criss-cross in between freighters. Iran, Iranians everywhere. The blurred contours of the popular Iranian holiday resort Khesh Island passes by on the port side. Inside in the passenger lounge, children, women and men are astir, gathering belongings and getting ready to disembark. The spectacle is accompanied by pictures on a big TV screen of martyrs from the war with Iraq. These are inserted next to battle footage dubbed with songs of mourning, interspersed are segments with tearful relatives recounting joyful memories of the deceased.
Last visit to the rest rooms to wash hands yet again. More water on the floor than in the Gulf. Behind the doors of eight booths are the holes in the floor that are the single most import reason that Western and Islamic civilisations will never merge.
It is a night mare to get out without having to touch the door handle. I feign to have problems with my zipper in order to let another pass me. He is most courteous and patiently waits till I’m all sorted. I will not touch the handle. I must touch the handle. And so we enter Iran.
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