Two days ago, Zach Weisberg (of theinertia.com) forwarded
an email to me. It came from one Terje Eriksen of Norway, with an interesting request:
Dear Sir/Madam
http://www.theinertia.com/travel/comoros-surfing-islands-of-moon/2/
is an article that
mentions the ferry Shissiwani of Comoros - and I beleive that this ferry was
bought in Norway some years back. By then it had the name Jæggevarre.
As it happens I am born on that ferry - in a taxi - in 1964.
I have searched the
net to get some info about the ferry and to find out if this one is actually
operating these days - and then I came across this article by Michael Kew.
It would have been great fun to get a photo or two showing that ferry
these days.
Do you think it is
possible to get in touch with Mr. Michael Kew?
Best regards,
Terje Ansgar Eriksen
Norway
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| In Comoros, this is quite useless information. |
Photographer John Callahan, who visited Comoros with me,
sent a few shots of the boat; I forwarded them to Terje. His reply:
Hi Michael!
You guys made my
day!!!!
The story is even
better - this ferry was built in a town called Harstad in 1960. It was put in
traffice between two villages Olderdalen and Lyngseidet, and in those days this
stretch was actually the only road linking North of Norway with the South. So
one lovely day in 1964 my mother started to feel unwell, and since she was
expecting me she knew what was going to happen. In those days there was not
that many cars available, so she sent for a taxi from our neighbouring village
- and the drivers name was Ansgar Dalvik. He came - and then they rushed to
Olderdalen to catch the ferry going to Lyngseidet - the goal was to reach the nearest
city - Tromso. Anyway, I did not have time to wait - so I was born in the taxi
on board that ferry. In fact - the crew wanted me to be named after the ferry (
Jaeggevarre ) , but my mother did not want that - but I got Ansgar as a middle
name - after the taxi driver.
Years after - I left
Norway to do some work with Emergencies - mainly Logistics, and worked for
World Food Programme, Unicef, Unrwa in various locations - Iraq, Palestine,
Sudan... During that period I met my wife-to-be, and she is a Kenyan. For the
first years in our relationship we used Nairobi, Kenya, as a base - and then I
read online that my birthplace was going to follow me from Norway to Africa!!!
The ferry got sold, and the went all the way from Lyngen to Comorro islands...
Since we now have two children we decided that Norway was a more predictable
place to live - so we moved up here in the arctics. But my soul - and also my
birthplace - is still roaming around in that East Africa!
http://www.lyngenlodge.com/
(just to show you the area where the ferry was operating )
Thank you very much
for the photos! I was so happy to receive them!!!! I tried to find them online
- there is a few friends I wanted to show these photos to.
Cheers - and Happy new
year!
Best regards
Terje
The piece of my Comoros tale that Terje had found:
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| Luxurious, fully appointed overnight accommodation. |
“Sachet, monsieur!
Sachet! Sachet, s’il vous plaît!” People—mostly children—began vomiting within
an hour out from Moroni’s harbor, frantically screaming for the blue plastic
bags (sachets) that a man darting around the deck was dispersing, trying to
reach people before they puked onto the ship or someone next to them. Instead
of just vomiting over the gunwales and into the sea, a Comorian would stick his
or her head into a bag, spew, then pass the bag to anyone in vicinity who was
also ill, assuming they hadn’t expelled onto the deck already. When a bag was full,
the sachet man would grab it, tie it shut, and toss it overboard.
Initially since it was dark and since we couldn’t really see what was
happening, Emiliano and I thought it was a game. Simon corrected us. “It’s
disgusting,” he said. Rarick, who was sitting on the deck amongst several
seasick locals, caught the brunt of it, narrowly avoiding random sprays of
chunky white vomit.
“Looks like they all ate the same thing,” Callahan said.
“Cassava,” I said.
“Nice, isn’t it?” Cataldi said, grinning.
We’d left an hour before sunset— babies crying, strong wind, whale
spouts, clearing skies—and when darkness fell, reality set in.
“Welcome to the Hell Ship,” Callahan said, lighting a cigarette. “We’re
in for a long night.”
The Anjouan-registered Shissiwani-II was an old 120-foot Norwegian
trawler, a sad and filthy hunk of rusted iron, topping maybe four knots at full
throttle, overloaded with cargo and smelly Comorians. The ship had no toilets,
no food, no lights, no shelter, nowhere to sleep, only a few dirty plastic
chairs to sit on. The crossing was to consume 14 hours: 10 hours of sailing
followed by four hours on the boat outside Mutsamudu’s harbor, waiting for the
Anjouan customs office to open.
The lower decks were littered with garbage, bits of rope and wire,
dirt, plastic bags, bald tires, goats, ratty chickens running amok. Up on the
top deck, where we were crammed in with the other passengers, were lines of the
crew’s drying clothes, flapping in the wind—not much else except a few crates
of bottles and chunky rice sacks of dubious contents. The air smelled of shit,
diesel smoke, sweat, and vomit.
Eventually the crowd fell silent. Immense darkness at sea, a sliver of
moon, countless stars and the Southern Cross. Judging from the rough sea, there
was plenty of swell. I tried to doze partially supine on some chunky bags, but
a man soon scolded me—“Fragile!” People were jammed into corners and in the
corridors, sleeping almost on top of each other. The deck was layered with
spew. I put my iPod on and tried to zone out for the duration, but its battery
died as we neared Anjouan, which was sighted at 1:45 a.m.