A few of us don't know where Africa is. And a few don't know where Mauritius is. But very few of us know Mauritius is one of the most prosperous nations in Africa. My wife Beverly and I know because we own a great deal of it (Mauritius, not Africa).
Have you ever driven down a long country lane in Wiltshire, glimpsed the many chimney pots of a baronial manor just visible above ludicrously high hedgerows and wondered, "Who lives there?" Beverly and I do. The oriental carpet in our vestibule is larger than the local football pitch and a good bit older. As I told a far less successful colleague over breakfast in the City last month, "I'd count my blessings if I didn't have so many of them!
Anyway, we spend a fair amount of time on our yacht sailing between the Maldives, Mauritius, and the Seychelles. Beverly can never remember one from the other so I help her out by posting little signs about our floating paradise: "Seychelles; large, smooth rocks"; "Maldives: Seychelles without rocks"; "Mauritius: great Mai Tais at the Colony Club."
One decidedly unprosperous African country is Somalia. Oh, mercy me. No Mai Tais there. Think: civil unrest. Think: warlords. Think: when do you think this air conditioner might be fixed? Nonetheless, Somalia, due to its strategic location, has enjoyed its share of self-interested aid over the years from the Soviets and, now, the Yanks.
I have somewhat conflicted feelings about my native land, the United Kingdom, having obtained citizenship in Monaco the other year for tax purposes (my purpose, obviously, was not to pay any tax). I love merry old England, use its hospitals and universities when I can (a daughter currently at Merton College Oxford), but just can't abide paying tax.
All this came to mind yesterday when we noticed a most unfriendly craft approach our yacht 85 miles off the coast of the one that begins with "M" and serves great Mai Tais. Out in this part of the planet, nautical types tend to dress in a manner which Beverly describes as "brisk." One who dresses briskly wears white trousers, often a horizontally-striped shirt (in the style favored by French seafarers, though of a lighter material) and frequently a Greek fisherman's cap. I actually sport all three items and have always felt at home in the world's most fascinating ports (from Portofino to Antibes).
But rarely have I encountered a fellow sailor with a knife clenched between his teeth. We immediately noted that this man, who stood alone on the deck of a rather scruffy craft, was not dressed briskly. He wore a dirty bandanna, sleeveless sweatshirt, a pair of ripped jeans, and was barefoot. Nor did he acknowledge our (admittedly half-hearted) waves of greeting.
Beverly and I exchanged first impressions. She: "I'm sure he's crew. His employer must be below-deck." I: "Why the knife?" She: "Perhaps he's a cook." I: "Why the knife clenched between teeth?"
It's actually quite painful to clench something between your teeth for a long period of time. Up until very recently, I had no familiarity with this practice. I do remember a particularly tiresome day in Wiltshire when I absolutely could not get a knot out of my shoelaces and was compelled to pull forcefully with my incisors. But that took all of 25 seconds. As for true clenching, I had no previous experience.
Now I do. I currently have direct knowledge of many things I had never imagined. For this I am indebted to Jacob (he of the ripped jeans) and his mates (fourteen of whom eventually emerged from the hold).
Frequently yachts are emblazoned with witty, eye-catching names: "The Lucky Few," "$am's $hip," or, in our case, "Beverly's Bounty." Indeed, my wife won our yacht in a friendly wager (she averred England last won the World Cup in 1966; I was sure it was 1970 (alas, Brazil again!)). Jacob's boat had at one time read: "North Korea," until this was crossed out with what Beverly claims is blood.
I have no doubt North Korea is a beastly place. Its ruler is a cruel despot who has men put to death in front of their spouses while the population starves. And yet a part of me found myself wishing the crew of Jacob's vessel were North Korean and even that Jacob himself were Kim Jong-il (if only because his appearance would have improved immeasurably).
But no, Jacob and his colleagues are Somali. Somali pirates, to be precise. For me, pirates have always conjured up dashing visions of peg legs, eyepatches, and hooks in lieu of hands. In point of fact, upon further consideration (and I've had ample time to re-consider, clenching a urine-soaked rag between my teeth for the past seven hours), these are images of mutilation. There's nothing particularly romantic about a missing limb or lost eye. My new perspective may be the only good thing to come out of this ordeal (provided my London solicitor can come up with £5 million in 72 hours).
In the meantime, I fret for Beverly. The world of Somali pirates is not her world. Think: Cheltenham Ladies College. Think: "Tatler." Think: "Fix that bloody air conditioner by lunch or you're fired." It is not necessary to describe my wife's physical attributes; a partial list of men she's been with will suffice: Roger Daltrey, Peter Frampton, Sting, the late George Harrison, Elton John (kidding), and Eric Clapton.
With me bound and gagged in the boiler room, I worry for her well-being with the fifteen ruffians above. Beverly can be snappish with those she deems below her station, a category into which Somali pirates firmly fit. Oh, my God, I hear her screaming now. Footsteps draw closer: they're at the boiler-room door. Beverly is yelling, "Pervis, they don't want me." (Thank Christ for cultural differences.) What's that she's shouting? Oh, no. (Strike that remark about cultural differences.) She's shrieking, "Pervis, they want you!" Blimey.
