Antipode – Chapter 12
Naked Sailors
Antipode was originally published in 2001. Here is where we started—with the Introduction. And here are all of the chapters posted thus far.
The flora and fauna of Nosy Mangabe coexist with me when I am here. The people of Maroantsetra, though they no longer visit very often, allow me to stay. The fisher people who sometimes camp overnight, during storms or good fishing runs, grant me access. I have no such power to grant, as I carry no authority. But I do share the space with a variety of people, some of whom I feel, with my foreign skin, don’t belong; others I know belong far more than I ever will.
My parents treated me to a cruise with them down the Nile a few years back, just after New Year’s. We all began the week expecting cushiness and little real interaction with local people. I was pleased to find that the itinerary on our frequent stops, with the advertised goal being to see ever more fantastic ruins, was flexible. If the ruin of the hour seemed just like the last, or if the number of tourists who had gotten there before us was too stifling, we could wander about the streets of whatever town we were in.
We were exploring Edfu together, but my mother was suspicious of those we encountered, registering her distrust by scowling at them. She didn’t love my choice of streets to drift down, finding them a bit daunting by virtue of their narrowness, the number of children playing with metal shards in the middle of them, the domestic air of laundry hung out to dry in the sharp heat. She allowed me to drag them down these places, but her discomfort showed on her face. We were not interacting with anyone. The locals backed off a bit when we came by, and no laughter served as backdrop to our slow conversation.
“If you smile at people, they often accept you as an ally, and smile back,” I gently suggested. I was surprised at how easily this point was made. My mother began to smile, and our joy increased immediately, as locals greeted us, children ran about, and native conversation ceased to halt in our wake. We quickly acquired a guide—a little girl named Sylvia who spoke some English, and seemed to enjoy skipping along beside us. The lesson was simply this—why not expect good things of people, until they have given you reason not to? This is especially valuable when the stakes are low, or your initial hostility gives you no real advantage anyway. In Madagascar, the lesson is critical. When I act distrustful and nasty, I get the same back at me; with just a bit of courtesy on my part, everyone, including me, receives more respect in the end. Positive feedback is a powerful thing.
About half a mile south of camp on Nosy Mangabe, along the coastal trail, is a bridge over a rocky stream. Gushing out of the side of the mountain is a waterfall, shorter than the one in camp, but still quite forceful. When boats come to the island to moor, the sailors on board come on land to get fresh water, or to bathe. Though their activities frequently go beyond these legitimate ones, while the boats stay three, four, five days, in which time the tide gives them countless opportunities to leave, I try to appear gracious and unperturbed when I run into groups of sailors at this small waterfall. Unlike fisher people, sailors do not include women in their ranks. Most of these men have rarely seen white people, much less a white woman, before in their life.
My first interaction with naked sailors was late one afternoon when I was returning to camp after a long day. I was tired, dirty, and the gear on my back was heavy. I just wanted to get clean, have a big plate of rice, and lie on the dock watching stars. I wasn’t paying particular attention to my surroundings when I came upon the bridge, looked down, and saw four naked men staring up at me. They looked so utterly harmless that it didn’t occur to me to be worried about the situation, so I continued on after nodding in a universal human sign of recognition. Shortly, though, I heard rustling behind me, and when I snuck a peak, I found the men, still naked, tip-toeing behind me on the forest trail.
“At least I know they’re not armed,” I thought, glad to be grateful for anything at the moment. They seemed merely curious, and the situation simply silly, rather than dangerous, so I kept on at the same pace, every now and again looking back to find them on their tippy-toes, trying to be silent while crunching through the leaf litter. When I arrived back in camp, Lebon was there, and as I strode past his cabin, naked sailors in tow, he called them to him. Would he reprimand them? No—he just wanted company. For the rest of the afternoon, they sat on the stoop of his cabin. One of them was draped with Lebon’s only towel, while the others remained naked, and chatted with him.
The following week, I came upon approximately fifteen men in the same place, some in little bikini briefs, some totally naked, half of them soaped up already, the other half just getting into the action. I walked over the bridge wearily, hoping to merely shock them with my presence, and then be gone. The quickest among them recognized me as human before I passed, though, and yelled a hearty “bonsoir!” He was quickly joined by others among them, so I responded, if not with much enthusiasm.