as I repacked the tattered papers into my wallet.
“You will be wanting to rent equipment from us then?” I had misjudged his interest in my experience. It was just a way to get on with his checklist of questions.
Mr Saesui handed me my passport back with a slight smile, adding: “We will expect your arrival soon after seven-fifteen on Wednesday morning, Mr Cooperman. I’m sure you will be able to arrange a taxi through your hotel.”
These times were so early in the day as to be abstractions. I nodded, then remembered: “You’ll want a deposit, won’t you?”
“In your case, Mr Cooperman, that will not be necessary.”
“Oh, I just remembered something.” A frown replaced the smile on his face for a moment, then the smile returned. I pointed over my shoulder behind me. “Up the hill, on the road down here, we passed a beached freighter sticking out into the street. Can you—?”
“Tsunami,” he said. As though that explained everything.
“That’s what my driver said. What does the word mean?”
“Tsunami is a tidal wave. Nothing to do with tides, of course. It came from an underwater eruption near Sumatra last year. Many people were killed. We had to rebuild much of the waterfront. Meanwhile, there are a dozen families living in the hull up the road, even while they are cutting it up for scrap.”
“Of course, I remember now. I’m sorry.”
After a short pause, a reluctance to move on from so many deaths, back to business. He led me through a long, narrow corridor to a shed, backed up against the hill. A high concrete wall was crumbling, probably from the constant pressure of the hill rising up behind. Mr Saesui turned me over to a young clerk, a darker local man by the look of him, named Ho. He brought out various bits of gear for me to try on: there were rubber flippers, rubber pants, and a similar top. Then there were weights and the Aqua-Lung itself. Ho smiled a lot, but was patient with me as I tried on one item after the other. In the end, he handed me some lead weights and two regulators: one for going and the other for coming, I guessed. His next gift to me was a “rashi.” I think that’s what he called it. From what I collected from his miming I grasped that it was to ward off some of the nastier samples of wildlife that try to sting the exposed lower neck. I caught what sounded like “jellyfish” in there someplace. I almost turned around and headed for home.
Ho’s English was as limited as my French, but we managed the whole process in less than half an hour, during which time I was offered Chinese tea in a small cup without a handle. Such refinements will come later on, I figured. A fellow worker came by with a Coke and seemed to argue with Ho about closing down the shop that night.
Mr Saesui himself showed me out when I had done. “When you come here on Wednesday, please go to the west building. The office on the water, across the street. You needn’t come here again. Until then, Mr Cooperman.”
I found my way back to the seafront. Suddenly the air was thick with the cry “Taxi!” in a score of different accents and inflections. I shook my head, waved them away, and looked at the small craft tied up at the docks and others making their way out to the open sea. The odor of seaweed was rank on the air. It cut into my sense of smell, where, after the first shock, it lingered pleasantly. Mingled with this were other smells: tar, oakum, iodine, and dead fish. The sounds of shorebirds mingled with those of small motors and shouts from along the waterfront. The steady boom-boom of four-stroke engines reminded me of a long-ago trip to the harbor at Pugwash, Nova Scotia, where I first heard them.
After filling my senses for twenty minutes or so with local color, I decided I needed to find transportation back to the upper town. Even as I did this, I promised myself a return journey. The shore seemed to be what this place was all about; the rest of the town that I’d seen so far
“You will be wanting to rent equipment from us then?” I had misjudged his interest in my experience. It was just a way to get on with his checklist of questions.
Mr Saesui handed me my passport back with a slight smile, adding: “We will expect your arrival soon after seven-fifteen on Wednesday morning, Mr Cooperman. I’m sure you will be able to arrange a taxi through your hotel.”
These times were so early in the day as to be abstractions. I nodded, then remembered: “You’ll want a deposit, won’t you?”
“In your case, Mr Cooperman, that will not be necessary.”
“Oh, I just remembered something.” A frown replaced the smile on his face for a moment, then the smile returned. I pointed over my shoulder behind me. “Up the hill, on the road down here, we passed a beached freighter sticking out into the street. Can you—?”
“Tsunami,” he said. As though that explained everything.
“That’s what my driver said. What does the word mean?”
“Tsunami is a tidal wave. Nothing to do with tides, of course. It came from an underwater eruption near Sumatra last year. Many people were killed. We had to rebuild much of the waterfront. Meanwhile, there are a dozen families living in the hull up the road, even while they are cutting it up for scrap.”
“Of course, I remember now. I’m sorry.”
After a short pause, a reluctance to move on from so many deaths, back to business. He led me through a long, narrow corridor to a shed, backed up against the hill. A high concrete wall was crumbling, probably from the constant pressure of the hill rising up behind. Mr Saesui turned me over to a young clerk, a darker local man by the look of him, named Ho. He brought out various bits of gear for me to try on: there were rubber flippers, rubber pants, and a similar top. Then there were weights and the Aqua-Lung itself. Ho smiled a lot, but was patient with me as I tried on one item after the other. In the end, he handed me some lead weights and two regulators: one for going and the other for coming, I guessed. His next gift to me was a “rashi.” I think that’s what he called it. From what I collected from his miming I grasped that it was to ward off some of the nastier samples of wildlife that try to sting the exposed lower neck. I caught what sounded like “jellyfish” in there someplace. I almost turned around and headed for home.
Ho’s English was as limited as my French, but we managed the whole process in less than half an hour, during which time I was offered Chinese tea in a small cup without a handle. Such refinements will come later on, I figured. A fellow worker came by with a Coke and seemed to argue with Ho about closing down the shop that night.
Mr Saesui himself showed me out when I had done. “When you come here on Wednesday, please go to the west building. The office on the water, across the street. You needn’t come here again. Until then, Mr Cooperman.”
I found my way back to the seafront. Suddenly the air was thick with the cry “Taxi!” in a score of different accents and inflections. I shook my head, waved them away, and looked at the small craft tied up at the docks and others making their way out to the open sea. The odor of seaweed was rank on the air. It cut into my sense of smell, where, after the first shock, it lingered pleasantly. Mingled with this were other smells: tar, oakum, iodine, and dead fish. The sounds of shorebirds mingled with those of small motors and shouts from along the waterfront. The steady boom-boom of four-stroke engines reminded me of a long-ago trip to the harbor at Pugwash, Nova Scotia, where I first heard them.
After filling my senses for twenty minutes or so with local color, I decided I needed to find transportation back to the upper town. Even as I did this, I promised myself a return journey. The shore seemed to be what this place was all about; the rest of the town that I’d seen so far
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