Fatherland Without Borders

By Vicario Ventura

Vicario Ventura, born in 1951, suspended his high school studies at the age of 26 to direct his footsteps to a port of Colombia and leave as a stowaway on board a foreigner ship, with a backpack as his only possession. Thus, began a life of trips and adventures around the world which he later dedicated to the profession of seaman, compatible with his vocation of solitary traveler.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Vicario Ventura
• Release date: Dec 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311647092

Vicario Ventura

EspañolVicario Ventura es el seudónimo de un marinero colombiano nacido en 1951, quien a la edad de los 26 años suspendió los estudios secundarios y en un puerto de su país se fue de polizón a bordo de un barco de bandera extranjera, iniciando así una vida de viajes y aventuras eligiendo posteriormente la profesión de marinero, compatible con su vocación de viajero solitario, que con una mochila a la espalda lo ha llevado a conocer diversos países del mundo entre ellos Nepal y Suiza, que no tienen cercanía con el mar.EnglishVicario Ventura is the pseudonym of a Colombian sailor born in 1951, who at the age of 26 suspended his high school studies to direct his footsteps to a port of his country and leave as a stowaway on board a foreigner ship. Thus, began a life of trips and adventures which he later dedicated to the profession of seaman, compatible with his vocation of solitary traveller. With a backpack as his only possession, he has travelled to different countries around the world, among them Nepal and Switzerland, which aren't near to the sea.

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PART I

CHAPTER I

Tired and nervous, I finished the initial objective of my trip to Europe. It's not the first time I cross a border but the entrance to Greece is no longer as it used to be, and arriving by airplane is the best way to avoid arousing suspicions on those who control the entrance of tourist visitors.

I am a Colombian sailor who has been working for years with Greek people. I have learned their language and idiosyncrasy and am already involved with one of the many shipping companies located in front of the legendary Aegean Sea, in the ancient Port of Piraeus. Now I'm in Greece once again after having spent the earnings obtained in the hard work as seaman. Not all men are capable of working on ships; life on board is harsh and monotonous, with a heterogeneous coexistence of different races and cultures within the crew. It's like a Tower of Babel due the variety of languages and religions: Africans, Indians, Filipinos, Arabs, South Americans and Europeans are among the ethnic groups that work in the Greek ships. The South American seafarers are able to communicate among each other in one same language and the similarity of our character helps us understand each other and avoid disagreements, so we may work better to earn enough money. In our countries, earning enough money is something that can only be afforded by those who have a professional degree or have been able to get involved in the bureaucracy that has brought so much shame to some of our leaders.

The only thing required to work on ships is an adequate physical vigor and a healthy mental resistance to endure the long journeys, the dangers of the sea and the frightening loneliness that men usually try to avoid and that frightens women. A sailor is able to compare life in different countries and knows how to conform himself to the isolated life of the sea. For a Latin American traveler, though, who arrives at the old continent for the first time, the cultural impact conditions him and makes him feel alienated from the reality perceived by his senses. European countries offer the comfort, the order and the security that are entirely unknown within other borders. In South America we suffer from big social and economical inequalities. A proof of this is the lack of shacks or slums, the poverty-stricken neighborhoods in Europe.

In Greece, walking through the streets of Athens does not differ much from any other European country: the architecture and the natural surroundings may differentiate the visual aspect of the different cities but their urban organization is very similar. Tourism is ceaseless during the high season and the means of transportation are fast and efficient. Greece is one of the most visited places due to the beauty of the Aegean Sea and the peculiar attraction of the many islands roaming around in the mind of those who still hear the voice of their school teacher talking about Ulysses's Ithaca, the story of the Minotaur and the labyrinth of Daedalus in Crete Island.

My stay on land could last weeks and months, although it could also occur that just after some hours a vacant position appears on a ship. You always have to wait more when you're a foreigner searching for a job at such a critical moment of unemployment in the world. Here, every day I loose myself among the tourists that walk along Acropolis or Parthenon. I hear them laugh and speak other languages, however, if I travel to the port, there in Piraeus, the faces are hard and the looks are deprived of innocence or friendliness. There are plenty of bars which welcome sailors who want to celebrate and cafés which gather mostly unemployed people and where a diversity of ethnic groups have their meeting place. This is how the Arabs, for example, find their own delegation and how each race awaits the longed for vessel. More than 2,000 shipping companies open their doors without guaranteeing the job openings we all came looking for; many spend months waiting without finding that opportunity, while others pay significant amounts of cash to speed up the turns and be able to quickly sign a working contract that recruits them as new crewmen destined to travel by plane to any port in the world where the ship could be located.

Pichicoma is the word used to refer to the captain or employee of a merchant fleet who receives money to grant work on a vessel. This is an illegal act punished by the Greek government, but which will persist as long as it brings money. Some say that this type of corruption was imported by the Chileans, which might be true as this is something characteristic of our continent, a practice better known as bribery. I remember that at the beginning of my sailing career with the Greek ships this was not the case; in those times, the list of the vacant positions on a ship was posted on the entrance walls of the buildings of the shipping companies and many of us paid didn't even pay attention to certain jobs positions because we didn't like the route or the age of the boat. At that time, the Greeks almost didn't navigate and there were many foreigners replacing them in that labor that they must carry on nowadays as they cannot find work elsewhere.

In Athens I get awfully bored. Winter starts its cycle, the temperature intimidates me and I briefly recall the land where I was born, its tropical climate and the exuberant vegetation, so scarce in this country.

To forget the boredom at night I go to the Port of Piraeus. The people of my race and my continent live there in groups or in mixed couples where one of them is a descendant of Olympia, the mother of Alexander or a descendant of Penelope, the faithful wife perpetuated by Homer's legends. It is with them, my fellow country-men, with whom I can renew the conversations and affection common in the tropics. The dancing parties rejoice in the dissatisfaction and take us to an atmosphere that is unusual around here. Women of my homeland and also of neighboring countries, join the parties where they and their foreign husbands share their friendship in a warm environment. A Colombian married to a Greek woman, a Peruvian woman married to a Greek man, all of them men and women who join their lives beyond cultural and language barriers. I have known some of them for years and that's why when they invite me to a party, I accept. In one of those gatherings I witnessed the formal intervention of the guardians of the law: It was two o'clock in a weekend morning; the food, wine, beer and whiskey were all being served in accordance to the rhythm of the music when suddenly, the presence of the authority forced us to lower the volume of the stereo and the occupants of two patrol cars asked us very respectfully and in a well-mannered way to deal with a complaint from the neighbors who couldn't sleep. We must understand that tradition is settled down in the will of the individual and we must agree to accept and understand that the world is divided into oceans and countries with borders.

CHAPTER 2

In the port of Piraeus, every day I visit the offices of the shipping company in which I hold an impeccable working record. I have already been able to demonstrate my skills and good behavior in several ships and this allows me to come back. I have been in Greece for a month and must continue waiting, anyway I'm not the only one waiting for a vacancy on board. Anytime now it'll be my turn. For the moment, the cold weather punishes me continuously and the winter clothes and the hands in the pockets are part of the malaise that accompanies me when I walk through the streets of the ancient port city.

Yesterday when I was in Athens, I was deeply impressed by a scene that I never imagined could represent an example of human behavior: in the public way there were two women giving out pamphlets to those who, out of curiosity or conviction, accepted the call of faith preached by one of the diverse religious sects of Christian origin. They were Jehovah’s Witnesses who made efforts to increase the number of followers in the path of their doctrine. I consider that all those who practice a religion and follow a set of precepts that guide them towards good and towards the respect of others, do not represent any offense to a country nor do they deteriorate the morals of its citizens. While I was waiting for the traffic light to turn green, an orthodox priest passed by the two women offering the Watchtower and Awake magazines published by their institution. The man of God was in a car driven by someone else and when he saw the two women, his face filled with indignation and stunning contempt and he spat on the floor knowing that the two women were looking at him. They just smiled back at his lack of education. He frowned and waited impassive until the green light gave way. I moved away recalling the words of the Messiah who insistently urged his disciples to show forth love to others and what is even more difficult, love to our enemies. I am not a judge to try others but I am a passer-by to criticize and I will never find justifiable such an unpleasant attitude.

Time goes by quickly and Christmas is getting near. People start decorating shops with merry, traditional motifs and people come and go with packages and gifts that bring happiness and remind us that the world needs love. Me, on the contrary, I get way too desperate. I can't stand life in the big cities and I try to avoid meeting my co-workers in the port. Last week we drank until dawn and some days later the same thing happened. I am not that dumb to sit down on a table for hours discussing topics that befuddle the mind and numb the spirit.

I'm running out of money and as the dollars are getting scarce, I decided to go work in the Peloponnesus orange crops. I have known this region for a year and there you may find a job at this time of the year which allows you to earn a living without needing to sign a working contract. All you need to do is wake up early and wait for the trucks to park in front of the meeting place where they gather the staff that will be distributed into different groups throughout the orange fields. Dozens of young tourists do as I: cross the Mediterranean countries, mostly the Greek islands, with merely a bag on their shoulder and a plethora of youth, enjoying their liberty and independence. They're generally German, English, French, Spanish, Italian or Scandinavian and they know that in Greece one can earn money picking up oranges during the winter season.

In 1982 I was coming back from India and while I was completing the job application process for a post on a vessel, I went to work in the orange crops. I became friends with a young Dutch man with whom I worked for a season. One month later I saw him again on the front page of a newspaper: the Interpol had caught him for a frightening crime, the murder of a nurse. Things like this happen every day in this world. The trip will only last three hours and I already know where I'm going to stay when arriving at the region of Peloponnesus.

The trip went out well. The day after arriving I was already standing on top of a ladder taking down oranges. From time to time I looked over to the mountainous horizon and the snowy peaks. The cold dawn penetrated the bones and at noon the water was still frozen in the pipes. As one might expect, the white, blond fellows disputed the best trees. In my working group the only Greek person was the overseer and he could barely speak English, so he would tell me in Greek what I had to translate to the rest. I met two young women, one from Sweden and another one from Austria. This type of women don't hide their interest in men with olive skin, black hair or South American features. The heaviest drinkers are the English and the German. In the afternoon we all went to the Costas café where the smoke and the smell of alcoholic beverages seemed unbearable to me. A week later I was back to the great city of Athens. I had been able to earn enough to hold on for a month but I think I will be leaving soon. Today, in the shipping company they told me to be prepared because they would be sending me to a 40,000 ton freighter with an international route, that is, it didn't have a well-defined itinerary. Tomorrow, they will send me to the doctor for the routine exams, specially the visual and hearing ones. I remember that last time I went for an exam, the doctor started a conversation about politics and without even standing up from his desk to examine me, he signed the health record card, that is, he earned the money without doing his duty.

CHAPTER 3

It was a good boat located not so far from Greece. I traveled by airplane to the United Arab Emirates, federation of emirates located at the entrance of the Persian Gulf. The ship had anchored in the territorial waters of that country to supply itself with food and fuel. To board the ship I had to climb on a motorboat with eleven other Greek crew members. Even though it's not my profession, I would be working as kitchen steward on board since it was the best way of leaving Greece quickly. Most likely what will happen is that in some more months, when there's a vacancy, I will be transfered on deck to work as an AB seaman [1]. The boat's destination is an Iranian port known as Bandar Abbas and the load comes from Australia: thousands of tons of wheat that will feed the Persians, who for years have been in war against Iraq, in a conflict that has cost the lives of many and has brought restlessness to this gulf. On board, a Filipino co-worker and I will be the only two foreigners. It will be the first time that I work in kitchen. The crew is made up of twenty-seven men and one woman, the wife of an officer.

[1] Abbreviation for Professional Sailor

I begin a new type of life. The sea breeze will detoxify my lungs and the healthy food will strengthen my body. I'm thinking of stopping cigarettes and alcohol and I'm going to impose a strict physical discipline on myself for not ending up worshiping obesity. In the first months a collection of good authors and their works will be my best incentive. I brought those books from Colombia and in Greece I didn't read any: the environment was not propitious for reading as I went to the movies a lot and it was almost inevitable to meet my friends, be them Greek or Latino. Both were given over to vice but this, is not part of my list of pleasures.

Being a kitchen steward sucks! You stink like food all day long and have to work eleven hours a day, three of which are overtime established by the Greek law. While I work in the kitchen I don't have days off; you earn good money but you don't get to see the light of the sun. On top of that, the air conditioning is on so the skylights can't be opened. I spend hours peeling potatoes, helping the cook, scaling fish, cutting chicken, cleaning squid, peeling garlic and onions, squeezing lemons and taking out whole frozen lambs to carve. After lunch or dinner, I have to wash huge pots and finally, leave the kitchen spotless and ready for the next day.

The Filipino and another steward made the officers' beds, swept and mopped the corridors and at meal time they served food and then they washed dishes.

The captain is an extremely simple man who likes eating in the kitchen. If I were a captain I wouldn't eat in the kitchen and instead of spending hours speaking with the cook, I would spend my time reading or listening to music, I would do oil painting even though I still don't know how to create on canvas and I would have a good telescope to submerge myself in the science of stars. I would also have a beautiful aquarium with fish of different colors and a purebred dog as my guardian. A captain is the person in command on board and his authority is respected. In several hours we will reach the port but apparently we're not allowed to leave the dock. A country in war has its restrictions.

CHAPTER 4

Time goes by and it is estimated that after 20 days we will put out to sea. The unloading process is slow and the heat suffocating, the garbage starts piling up on stern and the plastic bags are full of smelly, fly drawing waste. The negligence of the port authorities concerning the diseases that the flies can spread seems too much for me.

Last night I was watching TV and it turned out to be like a nightmare that disturbed my tranquility: pathetic images of women crying for their sons or their husbands, mutilated men in the full vigor of their youth, unburied corpses, walls, trenches, combat aircrafts, a sequence of events, what else could be expected to come out of war? Iranian women dress up in long black dresses and veil their faces, a traditional custom in Muslim countries that has been declining with the arrival of progress and foreign influence.

Nobody in the crew is allowed to go into the city. In the afternoons, we walk along the dock, some play football and me, I speak with the longshoremen who lament their country's situation: they're completely desperate seeing their friends and family die, knowing that sooner or later it will be their turn. They won't die for their country, but for their leaders' hostilities. The powers make lucrative business: Russia provides weapons to Iraq and Iran gets them from the United States, although some other countries are also involved in this terrible business. When we anchored several days while we waited to be allowed to enter the port, the fishermen exchanged fresh squid for foreign cigarettes or empty drums which must have some utility for them. They were humble people to whom the value of a missile and the millions worth a combat aircraft are unknown. I cannot give a most complete opinion about Iran than this one: TV and conversations held with the port staff aren't enough to give a correct description of reality. I would say that they don't live well even though the country is so wealthy thanks to the abundant oil production. Persians occupy a remarkable place in history: I can remember for instance, Cyrus and Darius, founders of great empires.

I'd like to leave this place as soon as possible as I can't stand not being able to walk freely and without fears.

On board, I start suspecting that the cook is homosexual. At times I have caught him caressing the officers' steward, a handsome youth who, according to himself, is engaged to a young woman and is planning to marry her when he gets back, even though she'll never know that her fiancé has homosexual tendencies. Concerning marriage, Greek people have an old tradition: a woman who gets married must have a house or a fortune that guarantees her future. This, in Greek is known as Prica, the property that the fiancée gives to her partner and it is generally a house which has been offered by her father. All this though, doesn't imply that all women have to have a house to be able to get married but those who have a property secure themselves a husband, while the other ones have to wait until a disinterested man arrives, who doesn't give much importance to the economical condition that afflicts the underprivileged.

The ship finally set sail to India, towards Goa, a port in the south: its beaches are wide and next to the sea you may find a tolerance zone. Prostitution proliferates, and me, I thought it didn't even exist in India. Years ago when I travelled as a tourist I got to know this huge country divided in twenty-two states.

Yesterday night I was walking along a beach in the city of Goa while the ship was getting loaded back in the port with a mineral called bauxite, which had to be taken to Japan. I was distracted stepping on the sand and looking at the sea when a female voice greeted me in English. We walked together and then she confidently put her arm around my hip. She was wearing Indian clothes with a long silk dress and a nose ring; her ankles were decorated with silver chains and on her forearms, the plastic bracelets made noise when she moved her hands when talking. I watched her closely under the moonlight: she was beautiful, her skin was dark and her way of looking was sincere. I wanted to kiss her but I didn't as that would have meant accepting what she came to offer: her body in exchange of some money. I told her something about my life to inspire confidence and she told me that she had two children and that she was 25 years old. I memorized her name immediately: Sherda. I invited her to one of the bars and she accepted. By coincidence, I met the Greeks in the same bar; they all had a partner and seemed satisfied. Me, on the contrary, I felt irritated. The woman excited my sexual instinct but I didn't want to give in so easily. I'm very attached to my idea of physical pleasure: I don't interpret it as just another hobby and much less am I used to paying for it. I drank a beer of awful quality and she didn't want to drink. Some children came to sell us peanuts and boiled eggs. I insinuated that she take me to her room. Some moments before a young man came offering the well-known Ganya [2] to smoke, a herb similar to the one cultivated freely in Nepal; in India, it is legal to smoke it in the cities of Benares and Jaipur but there in Goa it was illegal even though tourists and sailors have nothing to fear: law in underdeveloped countries frightens but doesn't punish and those who have money are protected by the law. Then, we entered a room, a rented bedroom for which she paid 100 rupees per month (10 US dollars) and that she used to sleep with her clients. A cockroach shamelessly crossed the wide bed from one extreme to the other, but she didn't see it. We smoked and the desire diminished between us. I didn't even touch her body and she ended up considering me as a yoga follower; I told her I wasn't, I left her some rupees to console her failure and then I went back to were my partners were. Most had already left with their women so I sat in a separate corner on a wooden table that needed some painting. Right after, a beautiful girl of about eight years old with a ring on her nose and barefoot because of her poverty but still offering me a smile, greeted me and sat down next to me. My heart was beating with joy even though I didn't show it. What do you want? I asked with an authoritarian tone in order to test her behavior. Nothing, she replied with evident indifference. I believed in her and mentally thanked her for appearing. Then I invited her to a beer and with an outraged exclamation she said: Girls don't drink. Girls don't come to bars and at this time they're sleeping. She remained thinking without lifting her gaze and I ordered a drink. We spoke in English and in Greek; words were scarce but enough to understand each other. She told me that each time she made a sailor friend he would give her money and would invite her to a drink or sometimes they would bring her soaps from the ships and that she would take them to her mom. Her innocence captivated me and I wasn't able to deny her my friendship. We ate some cookies and I promised that next day I would see her again. That's what I did: I brought her several gifts, the best one, a beautiful doll. Her happiness attracted a group of sniffly, badly-dressed kids that came to ask