Category: Travel

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 11

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka—1975

At 3:32 PM local time, on 19 July, 1975, Alon cut the rope tied to the
anchor and Zozo danced about in the water. I looked at the ship’s
clock and noted it in my journal, and placed the journal back in its
protective pouch.

We were no longer tied to the shore or the seabed. We were afloat.
I grabbed a life jacket, and quickly put it on, making certain it was
tied tight. Knowing psychology is an important tool for survivors, I
reminded myself of the importance of a positive image in dangerous
situations and imagined myself floating in the life jacket until rescued.
We were on deck as we set sail. Alon, Charles, and Mia scurried about,
preparing lines and sails while Dylan piloted the yacht out of the harbor.
I sat in what appeared to be the safest spot on deck, the center
seat, and clung to the seat and the railing. I gripped the railing tighter
when the ship pitched side to side.

Pots and pans rattled in the galley below, I realized this would be more
of an adventure than I had ever imagined. I saw a pan fly loose in the
galley and heard a loud thunk when it landed. Hope Toto didn’t get hit!
The crew on another boat waved goodbye. I waved back. A sudden
shift threw me forward. Forget waving. Hang on for dear life!
The harbor bobbed upward and downward, and the boat rocked back
and forth as we entered the open sea. The incessant waves made me
off-balance and dizzy. Queasy. No time to vomit now. No place to
vomit now.

Water slapped my face and drenched the deck. I watched Charles stumble
across it and stagger down the stairs. He must be feeling sick as well.
In an instant, the boat turned sideways, quickly straightened out, and
shot full speed ahead.

Dylan yelled, “storm overhead.”

I almost lost my lunch, but not my hold on the rail.

Dylan’s adjustment of the sails forced me to sit upright, again tightly
clutching the rails; determined not to be tossed overboard before we
even got out into the open ocean.

“It’s okay,” Mia said in a loud voice. “Dylan turned the wheel to change
course, and get us away from the storm.”

As we lurched ahead, south-west in the direction of the Seychelles. I
questioned why I had ever agreed to this crazy adventure. I wanted to
scream, Stop, let me off, but instead I moaned, “I feel sick.”
“It’s normal,” Mia said. “You’ll get used to it. Just remember to keep
your eyes on the horizon.”

“I’ll try,” I said, trying hard not to vomit or cry.
When I looked back, I saw black clouds covering the port of Trincomalee.
Large sheets of rain moved across the dark sky. The ships in
port became small dots on the horizon as Zozo moved forward into a
blue sky. Terra firma was going away as we sailed into the unknown.
Dylan unfurled and hoisted the sails.

Much to my surprise, the yacht became more stable with wind.
A few minutes later, I heard Dylan announce, “six knots.” He was
smiling. The wind whisked us ahead at a smooth speed.

Remembering Mia’s words, my eyes searched for land. I turned round
and round. Trincomalee had disappeared. No land in sight. Only
water as far as I could see. A water horizon surrounded me. A strange
feeling, one I had never experienced before.

“How far away is it?” I queried Dylan.

“To where?” he asked.

“The Seychelles,” I answered.

“Only 3198.5 kilometers,” he said smiling. “As the crow flies.”

“From Trincomalee to the Seychelles?” I asked again.

He nodded. “1725.9 nautical miles.”

“Almost 2,000 miles!” Oh to be a crow.

“Correct,” he said. “With sailing and tacking, it becomes more.”
“How much more?”
“If we change course and head into the wind, it will take longer.”
“How long will it take?” I asked.
“Depends on the weather,” Dylan answered.
I couldn’t even imagine traveling 2,000 miles across the ocean and not
seeing land. “Is there any land between here and there?” I asked.
He shook his head no. “Open ocean.”
The wind blew stronger. Still feeling nauseous, I decided to go inside
to be near a toilet. I took my time zigzagging across the deck, and
moved lower into the galley.
I picked up the fallen pots and pans and tossed them into the kitchen
sink. I slumped on a chair and waited for the motion sickness to go
away. I looked around for a sign of Toto, but my eyes failed to focus.
How long will this last? It seemed too hot and stuffy inside, so I got up
and moved toward the steps to the deck, gripping the railing for balance.
Got to have fresh air, I thought. Air will surely help. Straddling
the stairs, I clung tight to the railing, and waited for my eyes to focus.
A hand reached down. It was Mia’s, helping me climb up.
“Thank you,” I said, taking her hand and stepping onto the deck.
The waves had subsided, and the boat was gently bobbing along the
sea. Charles was also back up, sitting on deck. I asked him how he
was feeling.
“Sick,” he answered looking ashen. “I’m going back to bed.”
“Mia says it’s best to keep looking at the horizon.”
He shook his head no, and headed to the stairs, weaving about like a
drunk sailor.
“Hang on to the rails,” Dylan yelled. “It’s fairly calm now. If the seas get
rough, we’ll secure ourselves with life lines.”
Good, I thought. So we don’t get thrown overboard.
I remembered the ginger root remedy. I got up, and in slow motion
crossed the deck and snaked my way down to the galley.
Mia was in the galley making coffee for Dylan. She had put a kettle of
water on for tea. I peeled the ginger root and placed slices of it in cups
for me and Charles. When the kettle whistled, I poured boiling water
in the cups and let the ginger steep.
“Are you okay to carry it?” Mia asked.
“I’ll drink mine first and take a cup to Charles later,” I answered. Sipping
slowly, I starred at the coffee pot and let the warm, spicy bite of
ginger sink in. No wonder the coffeepot stayed in one place. It was
secured with nuts and bolts. A good thing. The way Dylan drank coffee
around the clock; rough seas or smooth sailing.
Mia took a fresh cup of coffee up to Dylan.
When she returned, I asked if she had seen Toto.
“Not today,” she answered.
“Do you ever get seasick?” I asked.
“Not anymore. You’ll get used to the motion,” she answered.
“Sure hope so,” I said.
I took the ginger tea to Charles and told him about the 2,000 mile
distance from Trincomalee to the Seychelles.
“I know,” he said. “I saw it on the map.”
“It’s a long way to go without charts,” I said.
He nodded his head. “Dylan assures me he can navigate by the stars.”
“Like Christopher Columbus?”
“We’ll see,” Charles said.
“What if the sun doesn’t shine?” I asked.
Charles shrugged his shoulders. “He’ll measure sights between the
horizon and a celestial object.”
“Like the moon or other planets?”
“Yes.”
“How does he do it?”
“With an instrument called a sextant, It determines the angle between
the astronomical object and the horizon.”
“Hard to imagine how it’s even possible,” I added, feeling worried.
“Dylan will take a sighting from time to time to know where we are,
and write it in a log book.”
“I’m heading up for fresh air and more ginger tea. Would you like
another cup?”
“No thanks!” Charles waved me away.
We had agreed to work four hour shifts. Feeling dizzy and queasy, I
couldn’t even imagine being of help to anyone today. Hopefully Mia
is correct in thinking it will pass. I didn’t like having wobbly sea legs.
I made more ginger tea, then worked my way back up the stairs to a
center deck seat.
I heard Dylan tell Alon we had a good wind and were making headway.
“How many miles do we go in an hour?” I asked.
“About five,” Dylan answered.
I figured it out in my head. “So, we’ll travel 120 miles in a day?” I asked.
“More or less,” Dylan said. “Depends on the weather.”
That’s like crawling, I thought. How many days would it take us to
reach land? The thought made me dizzier.
“Make yourself comfortable and enjoy the trip,” Alon said, smiling.
I sighed. Wishing it so.
The weather was nice the first two days, but feeling so disoriented
wasn’t fun. No thinking clearly, hanging on for dear life to anything I
could find. I wasn’t able to help do my shifts and neither was Charles.
My legs continued to wobble and I knew I was going to vomit clear
across the deck. I took a deep breath and talked to myself. No need to
vomit. Nothing in your stomach to vomit. Keep drinking ginger tea.
This feeling will pass.
And it did. By the morning of the third day, I could move about without
hanging on to anything. The seas were calm and the cool of the
breeze was soothing. I even enjoyed a stew Mia had made for our main
meal early afternoon. Charles was also feeling better, but didn’t want
to risk eating anything yet.
I offered to help Dylan, and sat on deck during his watch. He drank
cup after cup of coffee and never seemed to need a break or sleep. My
job was to be the lookout and make certain we avoided collision with
another ship or any other obstacle. All I could see was mile after mile
of water and waves.
As I sat watching the sea in the evening under the moonlight, I realized
Dylan really did look like Sinbad; snagged-tooth smile and all. Bet he’s
had some amazing adventures in his life. I wanted to ask. But Dylan,
like Charles, didn’t share much information about his past. He seemed
to have secrets. He did hum and whistle though, which I enjoyed.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 10

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

She grabbed my hand and practically pulled me down the gangplank.

By the time we left the dock and walked along the main road to town, I could feel negative energy building and billowing around us. I stopped twice; once I suggested we go back to the boat.

“Why?” Mia asked.

“So you can change clothes; show respect for the local culture.”

“It’s not my culture,” Mia retorted. “And I’m not local.” She kept walking.

I trailed behind with a growing feeling of dread.

“Come on,” she said. “I want to show you something.”

By the time she neared the entrance to the souk, word had spread about an indecently dressed woman walking the main street in the direction of the souk. An angry, vocal mob awaited her arrival.

I stopped again. Mia shrugged her shoulders and motioned me to hurry up. She was in a defiant mood and seemed clueless to the mounting danger.

“Mia,” I begged. “Please go back to the boat.”

“Why should I?” she yelled back.

“They’re angry at you.”

“Why?” She tossed her long, dark hair aside and kept strutting toward the entrance.

“Because of the way you’re dressed.”

“I don’t care,” she announced, walking on laughing.

As hostility swelled, the crowd grew larger. More villagers joined to show their support.

I stopped every few feet, hoping to reverse this scene.

When Mia reached the main entrance, the crowd surrounded her and began heckling her. They blocked her from entering the souk.
Whap! I heard the loud thud of a rock hit a wall. And another Whap! “Oh my God,” I gasped. They’re attacking her.

Whap! Zap! Thud! I heard Mia scream. The villagers were hurling sticks and stones at her.

“Run,” I yelled, “back to the boat.”

Whap! Whap, whap, whap! Mia screamed again. I saw her turn and push people aside.

“Run!” I shouted.

She took off running in the direction of the harbor, with the crowd chasing close behind. They continued to pelt her with whatever they could pick up and throw.

I slowed to a stop, took a deep breath, and covered my thumping heart with outstretched hands. I listened to my heart beat, and hoped Mia was outrunning the angry crowd.

The Tamil man from the cafe (where Charles and I had breakfast) was standing outside his restaurant as I passed by. He smiled and greeted me in English. “Your friend behaved badly,” he said. “Indecent expo­sure is against the law in Sri Lanka.”

“I know,” I said. “I’m sorry.” I shook my head, not believing what I had just witnessed. How could anyone travel the world (as she had) and not be aware of local customs in different countries. A total lack of respect. Chutzpah, as they say in Israel.

 

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 9

5star-shiny-web
Trincomalee, Sri Lanka 1975

The sun lowered and began its descent. Time to stop for the day and go
to dinner. Alon insisted on staying with the boat, and urged Dylan to
go with us and enjoy an evening out. Dylan agreed, if we could stop on
the way and check on the navigational charts at the ship’s agents office.
The clerk was on the phone when we stopped by. Dylan suggested he
wait and meet us at the Chinese restaurant.

He joined us a few minutes later and announced, “still no charts.”
“Unbelievable,” Mia said, “We’ve been waiting for weeks.”
“What are the charts for exactly?” I asked.
“Nautical charts of the Indian Ocean, from Trincomalee to the
Seychelles,” Dylan answered. “Maps showing water depth, buoys,
obstructions; information which ensures safe passage.”
“They sound essential,” I said.
Mia nodded in agreement and rolled her eyes.
“I’ll give them another week,” Dylan said.

A smiling waiter took our drink order.
Dylan and Charles ordered beer. Mia ordered tea.
“Wine for me, please!” I said.
Since Mia and Dylan had eaten here many times, we suggested they
order their favorite dishes.
They did and more too; wanting of course to have plenty to take back
to the boat for Alon.
“Can you sail without charts?” I asked Dylan.
“Best not to,” he answered, “but if necessary, I can navigate by the stars.”
“Celestial navigation,” Charles said. “I’m impressed.”
Dylan looked excited at the thought, and smiled.
“Your eyes sparkle like Sinbad the Sailor at the idea,” I said.
Dylan laughed.
“You’ve read about him?” I asked.
“Of course. He was a gutsy dude.”
“And story teller,” I added.
“Famous for his adventures and navigational skills,” Charles said.
“He saved a ship and found a map to the hidden treasures of Alexander
the Great. And he had all those fantastic adventures without charts,”
Dylan said.
We laughed, clinked our glasses of drinks and toasted, “L’chaim!
Without charts!”
The food was amazing. We left fully indulged, and I wondered if our
cuisine would be as tasty in the middle of the Indian Ocean. Somehow,
I doubted it.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 8

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka

July 1975

We wandered around town and found a small cafe.
“Isn’t this one our taxi driver also recommended?” I asked Charles.
“Yes.” Charles nodded.
We went inside and ordered toasted cheese and meat sandwiches. No
coffee, but tea was served and it was delicious.
“Ceylon tea,” the waiter said proudly. “Best in the world.”
“Your English is good,” I said.
“Thank you! I worked on cargo ships for many years. I sailed all over
the world.”
“Are you a Sri Lankan?”
“Yes. I returned home to look after my family.” he said, looking around
to make sure no one else was in the cafe. “We’re Tamils.”
“We read about the Tamil Tigers in the newspaper,” Charles said.
“We’re calling for an independent state, where we are respected,” the
waiter said.
“I understand,” I replied. “Are the Tamils a minority in Sri Lanka?”
“Yes, and we’ve formed a group to fight for our rights. There is no other
alternative. We will fight to the end.”
Charles and I sat silently, taking it all in.
“I’ll bring you more tea,” the waiter said.
“Is it the group the police think took the dingy from the boat?” I whispered
to Charles.
Charles nodded.

The waiter returned with more tea. Charles ordered another sandwich.
I told the waiter our nice taxi driver, from Colombo, had recommended
his cafe.
“My cousin,” he said, and in a hushed voice warned us not to talk publicly
about the politics of Sri Lanka. “It’s not safe.”
“In America,” I said, “minorities also have to fight for their rights.”
He nodded.
“Your cousin is a nice man,” I said.
He smiled. “He also sailed the seas for many years. But the Indian
Ocean is different because of the mawsim.”
“Mawsim?” I asked.
“Monsoon in English. Arabic in origin, mawsim means fixed season.
In the North the winds blow from the northeast from November to
March, and then switch and blow from the southwest. The fixed seasons
are called the Northeast and Southwest Monsoons.”
“Is this what causes cyclones?” Charles asked.
“No,” the waiter said. “Cyclones are tropical storms. They form over
tropical oceans with high winds of hurricane force.”
“Oh dear,” I said. “They sound dangerous.”
“If you cross the Indian Ocean in mawsim season, you are guaranteed
a few cyclones.”
Charles asked a few more questions about the Trincomalee area and
asked for the bill.

Going out the front door, I almost tripped over a grossly disfigured
man sitting on the sidewalk, leaning against the wall, outside the cafe.
He held a tin cup, hoping for coins. I asked Charles to give him some
change.
Our waiter appeared in the doorway and told us to drop the coins in
the cup.
“He’s a leper. An outcast,” the waiter said. “Sits here most days. I feel
sorry for him.”
My mind reeled, remembering images I’d seen of leper colonies in
films. Leprosy was common in Bible times, and was used as an example
of sin’s destructive power. ‘Unclean, unclean,’ a leper was expected
to call out. To think, this terrifying disease has been around since
ancient times. The thought made me shudder. Why was this man here
and not in a leper colony? Why wasn’t he receiving help?
“Isn’t leprosy an infectious disease?” I asked Charles.
“Yes, but not so contagious. Children are more likely to get it than adults.”
“From contact with body fluids?”
“Yes. From someone with untreated leprosy.” Charles answered. “That’s
why our waiter told us to drop the coins in his cup.”
“What a horrible disease,” I said. “Remember the man we saw in India
with the giant elephant legs? Elephantiasis?”
Charles nodded.
“Everyone else was so skinny; people and cows. And the poor man
could barely move with his heavy legs.”

We stopped in the crowded souk. Colorful displays of green beans,
carrots, peas, and yams got our attention, and the prominent exhibit
of fresh fish impressed me. The market was alive with noise and the
sweet smell of spices and local fruits. One stand was cooking freshly
made stuffed patties. We bought several, and some fresh fruit to take
back to the boat.
Processed milk products were relatively new to Sri Lanka and local
cheese was hard to come by. We found a cheese made from powdered
milk; bought a small piece and sampled it. Not the tastiest, but hey
when in Sri Lanka.
We discussed whether to buy a chicken or seafood, and decided to
wait until we talked with Mia about what foods were needed on board.
“I suspect Mia is a bit territorial in her kitchen,” I told Charles.
“No doubt,” he replied.
The locals were friendly and helpful. A few spoke some English, but
we mainly communicated by pointing. “International sign language
is amazing,” I remarked, as we headed back to the boat.

 

 

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 7

GMDC-seal-300

Trincomalee, Sri Lanka
July 1, 1975

Nearing the port city of Trincomalee, our driver pointed out shops
and restaurants which might be of interest.

“Only a short distance to the port,” he said. “What is the name of the yacht you will sail on?”

“Zozo,” Charles told him. “I’m sure if you drop us at the entrance to the port we can find our way.”

“No problem,” he said. “I’ll take you there. I have family who work in the port.”

“Oh thank you! Our suitcases are heavy,” I said, remembering all the books I had packed to read during the ocean crossing

Entering the port, our driver asked for directions to the yacht and
drove us a few hundred feet to a concrete quay. The Zozo was docked
alongside a Greek oil tanker. There were dozens of big tankers in the bay. The yacht looked small by comparison.

We unloaded suitcases, paid our driver, and thanked him for his
excellent service.

“I hope you enjoy your stay in Sri Lanka,” he said, nodding goodbye.

Charles called to Dylan and we climbed the gangplank to the boat.

Dylan answered, “Come on up!” He squatted on deck neatly arranging
ropes. “You made it.”

“A few days later than planned. We couldn’t get out of India.”

“Because of ‘The Emergency’?” Dylan asked.

“Yes. Every flight was full or delayed,” Charles answered.

Dylan showed us to our stateroom below and said Mia and Alon had
gone into the village for supplies and should return soon.

“Alon?” I asked. “Mia’s brother sailed with you?”

“Yes, he’s a great help.” Dylan answered.

He showed us the bathroom and sauna, and explained the sauna and
other luxuries all stop working once under sail and on the open sea.

We unpacked our suitcases. Charles went above to help Dylan sort
the ropes. I stayed in our room and put things away in drawers. I was impressed with the abundance of drawers and the nice size closet. I hung our windbreakers and clothes, put swim suits and underwear in a drawer, and placed my new, non-slip deck shoes on the closet floor. Not one for wearing hats, I put those in a top drawer along with sun protection lotion, a deck of cards, and high powered binoculars. I jotted thoughts in my journal.

Zozo? Where do I know this name from?

When I heard Mia and Alon return, I joined them on deck. I was surprised to see Mia dressed in hot pants and a scanty top. Why does she dress like this when visiting foreign countries with conservative dress codes? I wondered, remembering her almost nude attire when I first met her in Cyprus. Her risqué manner of dress; more undressed than dressed, reminded me of the voluptuous L’il Abner female comic strip characters who ran around half-naked. Men didn’t seem to mind. And, it didn’t seem to bother Dylan either.

“Hi Mia,” I greeted her.

She smiled and said, “Welcome aboard!”

Alon greeted me with a bright smile. A young, handsome man, he
looked like a suntan lotion advertisement. Tan and fit, with perfect
white teeth.

“Alon, nice to see you again,” I said.

Mia made fresh coffee. We joined her in the galley below.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia—Excerpt Chapter 6

Calcutta, India
June 1975

I smiled and said hello, happy to have reached a peaceful place amid the squalid chaos. How fortunate we are, I thought, to afford a refuge from the bedlam outside.
In the lobby, I heard a television reporter claim “The Emergency has put Indian democracy to death.” In the discussion, another reporter said, “the matter is extremely urgent and the situation is dangerous.”

Checking in, I asked the hotel receptionist if things were getting worse.
She shrugged, not keen to talk about it openly. “No problems for tourists,” she assured. “Travel rules have changed for Indians.”
“It happened to us in Cyprus last year,” I told her. “Foreigners were allowed to leave the country, but not Cypriots.”
She asked about life in Cyprus before the war. I told her it was paradise … until it wasn’t.
Nodding, she went on to explain the central location of the hotel (near the central business district, markets, and cultural landmarks), walking distance to Park Street and shops, and handed me a brochure about the hotel’s colorful history. Interesting reading.
In the early nineteenth century, it was the private residence of a Colonel Grand. After his death, it was purchased by a Mrs. Monk and converted into a boarding house, and later expanded to include more buildings on the block. A theatre, owned by a Mr. Stephen, was also on the same block. When the theatre burned in 1911, Mr Stephen bought out Mrs. Monk and redeveloped the entire block into the modern hotel with a pillar-less ballroom.
“Love the classic style,” I said, looking around.
“The exterior reminds me of ancient Greek and Roman buildings,” Charles said.
“Yes, Neoclassical,” the receptionist replied.
Proud to share what she knew, she went into even more detail. The hotel became a popular meeting place for foreigners and the country’s leading figures. It was known for its annual, and extravagant, New Year’s Eve party in the ballroom where twelve piglets were released each New Year’s Eve and anyone who caught a piglet, got to keep it.
I laughed, trying to imagine the bizarre scene. And why would anyone want a piglet?
Mr. Stephen, and several other hotel employees and guests, died in a typhoid epidemic in the 30s and the hotel was closed. Mr Oberoi, the present owner, purchased the property in 1943. During World War II some 4,000 Allied soldiers stayed in the hotel. Parties happened on a regular basis, including the U.S. Marines’ Annual Ball.
She pointed in the direction of a grand chandelier and an old wooden piano. “The piano is hand made and over 160 years old.”
“Wow,” I said, almost overwhelmed by the elegance of objects in the lobby.
We were shown to our room on the third floor, overlooking a lush garden. Charles enjoyed a smoke break on the balcony while I wrote notes in my journal, wanting to catch my first impressions while they were still fresh.
We walked around the area later in the afternoon, and saw more glaring contrasts; old dilapidated buildings and sleek modern ones. Old European, from the British Raj, imposed on a messy Asian cityscape. The streets were crowded with beggars, and my eyes watered from the polluted air. I felt as if I was choking on grit and grime. We decided to escape the confusion and disorderly masses, and head back to our hotel.
Dining in our elegant hotel restaurant that evening, I again felt blessed to be able to afford the luxuries of life and the smell of sandalwood incense.
“To the good life,” I clinked my wine glass with Charles’s.
He smiled.
The following morning, we telephoned the airline to see what flights were available; possibly one later in the evening with a connection on to Colombo. We were put on a wait list.

We decided to brave the hustle-bustle of Indian life once again and visit the Indian Museum; a short walking distance from our hotel. The hotel clerk gave us simple directions for getting there taking mainly side streets. She told us locals often call it ‘Jadughar’ as in house of magic. “You’ll see,” she said. “It’s fun.”
The main street was crowded with buses belching diesel fumes, and every type of transportation one could imagine. No one on roller-skates, but we did pass a sedan chair carried by four skinny men. The man seated in the chair was dressed in all white.
“Bet he’s a holy man,” I commented.
A few feet further on we saw another sedan chair carried by four more skinny men. The man seated was dressed in orange.
“Think he’s holy as well?” Charles asked.
“I do,” I replied.”Or rich.”
Entering the portals of the Indian Museum, we realized we needed several hours, maybe even a full day, to view all the hundreds of items on display in six different sections; Anthropology, Art, Archaeology, Geology, Zoology, and Economic Botany.
We hired a guide to show us the highlights. He told us the museum was founded in 1814 by the Asiatic Society of Bengal, and the curator was a Danish botanist. As the oldest and largest museum in India, it was established to collect, care for, and display natural and man-made objects. It housed rare collections of any and everything one can imagine; from antiques, armor, fossils, mummies, ornaments, skeletons, and Mughal paintings and sculptures.
“In this museum,” he said, “you can find the history of man’s evolution and know the history and culture of Indians from ancient to modern times; from the end of the medieval era to the beginning of modernity, showing the amazing socio-cultural and scientific achievements of India.”
“A bit like discovering a cache of hidden treasures,” I commented.
He showed us his favorite displays: a 4,000-year-old mummy, an urn said to contain the ashes of Buddha, some rare coins, fossils, and fascinating stone carvings called Gandhara art. He explained it was Buddhist art; a merger of Greek, Syrian, Persian, and Indian art. He said Gandhara was an ancient kingdom and an early name for Pakistan.
He motioned us to follow him to see the preserved animals. First he showed us hundreds of stuffed birds and smaller animals. Next he showed us a stuffed elephant, a stuffed hippo, a stuffed rhino, a gorilla, lion, and tiger too.
“Amazing,” was all I could say.

Leaving the museum, an hour later than planned, I told Charles “I can understand the pride the Agra hotel clerk felt about Calcutta. Such a rich and vibrant atmosphere. It’s the most impressive museum I have ever seen anywhere in the world.”
“It is. Shall we try the Calcutta street food he also recommended?” Charles asked, pointing to a street vendor selling kathi rolls.
We ordered one each of the chapatis filled with juicy mutton kebabs, fried egg, and tender chicken pieces. It was as delicious as the hotel clerk promised it would be.
“A perfect blend of sweet and spicy flavors,” I said, wiping juice from the corners of my mouth.
“And it’s fiery,” Charles said. “Like a Mexican taco.” They were so tasty, we ordered more, and made our way to a saner, quieter place. In our case it was a temporary fortress called the Oberei Grand Hotel.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia Excerpt Chapter 5

Agra, India
June 1975

The taxi drove us to the river bank and agreed to wait for us.

The night was warm. The steps to the water’s edge were filled with pilgrims making their way over the sandy bed of the Yahuna River. For some reason I expected a cremation ceremony to be serene and quiet. Heavens no, the atmosphere was electrifying, with action all around us. Rowboats waited near the shore to take visitors along the river for a quieter viewing.

As far as I could see, the shores of the Ganges, Hinduism’s holiest river, was dotted with dancing fires. Dusk descended, candles were lit, and I watched people of all ages assisting in the rituals.

Planks of wood were measured and weighed to make certain the
correct amount of firewood was used, according to the physical size of the deceased. Funeral pyres were built. Holy men stood in a long line,chanting verses, while waiting to perform the last rites. Bodies were wrapped in several layers of cloth, set on wooden planks, and taken to the sacred river for cleansing. After the cleansing, the body was placed on a pyre and the fire was lit. The evening was alive with a fiery glow, and the sounds of ringing bells and beating drums.The odor of burning flesh filled the air. I covered my nose, watched and waited with others for the moment when bones burned to ashes, and the soul ascended to heaven.

Amidst the chaos, I felt a calm, an appreciation for being witness to the departure of so many souls. A sacred moment.

We returned to the hotel for dinner and an early night. Of course I had many questions for the hotel clerk on duty.

“What happens after the cremation?” I asked.

“The focus changes to purifying relatives of the dead. Exposure to the corpse makes them impure.”

“Wow,” I said, “I thought it was beautiful watching relatives clean and wrap the body.”

“The eldest son or male relative shaves his head and wears a white robe and pours milk over the pyre.”

“Oh,” I said, “another reason the cow is sacred.”

“Yes. Family members wash and pass under a cow yoke and pray to the sun, and walk away. Never looking back.”

“How long is the mourning period?”

“Ten to thirty days, depending on the caste, and the age of the
deceased.”

I thanked her for answering my questions. We headed to the restaurant for dinner.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 4

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

Bombay, India
June 1975

We asked about good restaurants in the area. She suggested the Harbor Bar, a lounge bar in the hotel where you can enjoy drinks and order food from any Taj Hotel restaurant.
“Nice!” I said. “The airline clerk recommended it.”
“Yes, and it’s famous for its selection of drinks; the first licensed bar in Bombay,” she added.
“I’m feeling perkier already,” I said.
“Let’s check it out!” Charles smiled.
“Be sure to ask the bartender about the signature cocktail,” the receptionist said, pointing us in the direction of the elevator and lounge.
“Sounds perfect,” I said.

Entering the Harbor Bar, we noticed the liquor license plate: proudly hanging, proclaiming its place in Bombay history as the oldest licensed bar in Bombay.
The greeter showed us to a comfortable window table facing the historic waterfront—overlooking the Gateway to India.
A smiling waiter welcomed us to the stylish lounge bar.
“We have a selection of fine wines, malts, spicy cocktails, and international food fare,” he said. “But first let me tell you a bit of our history.”
We smiled, waiting for him to continue.
“The Harbor Bar opened in 1933,” he said, “during the Prohibition era, and was the first licensed bar in Bombay.”
We nodded.
“An American, traveling across the Indian Ocean in a yacht, was docked in our harbor when he received a radio call from his wife telling him Prohibition in America had ended. He had no alcohol on his yacht and decided to walk to the Taj Mahal Hotel and get a drink to celebrate the news. Entering the Harbor Bar, he asked for a special drink to quench his thirst after many years of not drinking alcohol. The bartender agreed to make him a special drink to commemorate the happy occasion. Using Indian fruit juices, he promised to concoct a tasty cocktail which would blow his mind.
With the first sip of the exotic cocktail, the man shouted in glee. ‘What is the name of this amazing drink?’
The bartender smiled and said, ‘Sir, since it’s an original made special for you, you can name it.’
The American stood, raised his glass, and shouted, ‘From the Harbor Since 1933!’”
“What a great story,” I said, laughing. “I’d like to try it.”
“Flambéed at the table,” the waiter said.
“Flambéed?” I asked. “Even better.”
Charles nodded. “When in Bombay … we’ll have two.”

The waiter returned with a cart holding two wine glasses filled with sliced fruit and another glass filled with fresh squeezed fruit juice and ice. He poured the content of the two glasses into a shaker and shook it with the fancy flair of a seasoned performer, and poured the mixture into two fluted bowl shaped glasses.
“Gorgeous glasses.” I said. “Shaped like the kerosene hurricane lamp my grandmother used during storms when power went out.”
“It’s called a hurricane glass,” he said.
I laughed. “Of course.”
He poured gin into another waiting wine glass, and struck a match to light it.
“Oh,” I said, watching the flames rise.
He swirled the glass and flames around, and slowly poured the flambéed gin into our hurricane glasses. One last stir and the signature cocktail was presented with a broad smile.
The flames disappeared. We sipped the tasty cocktail.
“Peachy and light,” I said, asking for the recipe.
“Gin, crème de peach, pineapple juice, and green chartreuse.”
“Thank you!” I noted the ingredients in my travel journal.
“Flambéed to perfection,” Charles said.
We clinked glasses together, and said, “Cheers!” in unison.
The waiter smiled.

We decided to order dinner from a restaurant located in the hotel named Tanjore. Our waiter explained their menu offered dishes from all of India’s diverse regions. He suggested we order a sampler platter for two, which represents all of them. “You won’t be disappointed,” he added, and explained tastes of India vary tremendously, as a result of local culture, geographical location, seasons, and economics.
Charles asked the waiter to select a white wine to go with all of the different cuisines.
“An Alsace Pinot Gris,” he suggested. “It provides a touch of sweetness.”
“Perfect,” Charles said.

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Good Morning Diego Garcia! Excerpt Chapter 3

Good Morning Diego Garcia, by Susan Joyce

GMDG-300

Bombay, India — 26 June 1975
The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new lands but seeing with new eyes. —Marcel Proust

We arrived in India at 7:00 AM. On final approach, I pointed out to Charles the hundreds of shacks, surrounding the airport. Endless clothes lines strung across roof tops to dry laundry.
“Welcome to Bombay, gateway to India,” the flight attendant announced.
We pulled our belongings from the overhead bin, and waited for the cabin doors to open.
Exiting the plane with us was a beautifully dressed Indian woman, in a sari which appeared to have gold threads woven into it. “Be careful in the terminal,” she said in a thick British accent. “There are bands of thieves who steal valuables. Keep your suitcases close to you at all times.”
“In the airport?” I questioned.
“Yes, It’s terrible. Crime in India is out of control. The government needs to do something about it.” “Oh, thank you,” I said, “we’ll be careful.”

With only ten minutes to catch our scheduled flight to Madras, we stopped at the airline desk to ask them to hold the plane for us.
“What is your final destination?” the airline clerk asked.
“Colombo, Sri Lanka,” Charles answered.
“I’m sorry,” the airline clerk said. “It’s not possible. You’ll need to collect your baggage and pass through customs.”
“Customs?” I asked. “We’ll never make the flight.”
“I can book you on the next available flight to Madras in two days time, and on to Colombo,” she said.
We wondered aloud how to contact our friends in Trincomalee. No clue how to let them know.
“Surrender to fate,” I said.
“Not much we can do,” Charles said. “Book us on the next available flight out.”
“Since the delays are Air India’s fault, we will book you into a luxury hotel and pay your expenses,” the clerk informed us.
“Where will we be staying?” I asked.
“The Taj Mahal Palace Hotel,” she answered.
“The Taj Mahal?” I asked. “Fabulous!”
“It is,” she said. “It’s been renovated and is beautiful. It’s Bombay’s first harbor landmark and the first licensed bar in the city.”
“Sounds great.” Charles smiled.
“It’s legendary,” she said. “Ask the hotel staff to tell you about its history. The ballroom has a gorgeous view of the Gateway to India.”
“Exciting,” I said. “Thanks!” I turned to Charles. “Time to see the sights of Bombay.”
Charles nodded.
“But for now, all I want is a shower and a comfortable bed,” I announced.

With our tickets re-booked, we followed the crowd into the baggage area.
After two frustrating hours, we found our luggage and proceeded through customs.
We lugged our heavy suitcases along a long corridor in the direction of the exit. Charles walked ahead of me, trying to locate a bank so he could change money. Seeing none, he suggested I stay with the luggage while he explored.

I pushed our suitcases close together and stood waiting for him to return.
Disembarking passengers thinned out. All at once, the terminal seemed eerily empty.
Out of a side corridor, three young Indian men appeared, moving toward me.
I quickly straddled the suitcases and sat, legs dangling across them.
Approaching, they asked if I wanted help moving them.
“No, thank you!” I said, firmly. “I’m waiting on my husband.”
“We help you,” one young man said, reaching for a suitcase.
“No,” I shouted, looking around the terminal for help.

I noticed a sea of orange robes heading my way. A group of young women chanting and dancing in brightly colored orange saris.
“Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama,” their chant grew louder and their dancing got wilder as they neared.
The three young men backed away and disappeared into a dark passage.
When the dancers reached me, they smiled.
One introduced herself as a devotee of Krishna, and offered to sell me a booklet to benefit the starving children of India. Others continued to chant and sway.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“New York,” she said. “And you?”
“I’m from LA. Why are you in India?
“We’re here to sell our books and spread the word about Krishna Consciousness, and build a temple to honor our Swami, Srila … ”
“There are thousands of starving children in New York,” I said.
“We worship the Hindu god Krishna as the one Supreme God,” another young woman chimed in, ignoring my comment.
“So you’re missionaries?” I asked.
“We’re evangelists. We believe in reincarnation …” one follower wanted to explain their beliefs, but another interrupted, while others continued to chant.
“I believe in reincarnation,” I said. “But I don’t think I need to sell it to others.”
They kept chanting and dancing around me.
“How many times do you have to chant this?” I asked.
“Sixteen,” a young woman answered.
I shook my head in disbelief. Where the hell is Charles?
“We’re vegetarians, and abstain from worldly pleasures,” the young woman said.
“Does chanting help?” I asked. I must have looked confused.
Another young devotee explained they practiced being celibate.
“No drugs or alcohol,” another chimed in. “The temple will be our heaven on earth when it is completed.”
They tried again to sell me the book.
“No. But thanks,” I said, my eyes searching the corridor for Charles and grateful for the diversion which drove off apparent predators. What was taking him so long?
When the Krishna believers realized I had no intention to purchase a book, they moved on.

I looked again for Charles and sighed, relieved to see him coming back. His smile told me he had found a place to exchange money.