Contrary To
My Anticipation, Everything Looked Fresh And
Green, And An Oriental Glamour Of Enchantment
Seemed To Hang Over The Island.
The old
town was bathed in brilliant sunshine and
reflected itself lazily on the motionless sea; its flat
roofs
And dazzlingly white walls peeped out
dreamily between waving palms and lofty
cocoanuts, huge baobabs and spreading mango trees;
and the darker background of well-wooded hills
and slopes on the mainland formed a very effective
setting to a beautiful and, to me, unexpected
picture.
The harbour was plentifully sprinkled with Arab
dhows, in some of which, I believe, even at the
present day, a few slaves are occasionally smuggled
off to Persia and Arabia. It has always been a
matter of great wonder to me how the navigators of
little vessels find their way from port to port,
as they do, without the aid of either compass or
sextant, and how they manage to weather the
terrible storms that at certain seasons of the year
suddenly visit eastern seas. I remember once
coming across a dhow becalmed in the middle of
the Indian Ocean, and its crew making signals of
distress, our captain slowed down to investigate.
There were four men on board, all nearly dead
from thirst; they had been without drink of any
kind for several days and had completely lost their
bearings. After giving them some casks of water,
we directed them to Muscat (the port they wished
to make), and our vessel resumed its journey,
leaving them still becalmed in the midst of that
glassy sea.
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