We all piled into the Land cruiser and headed for shark's bay, about 15 kilometres outside the city of Mogadishu.Much nearer town my father, with very occasional help from me, had taken time to do up the UN beach club, to smear plaster lovingly over the crumbling pillars and, when all the plaster had dried, to paint the club a beachy beige.
The UN club was a simple, small, rectangular, flat roofed Italian house with a veranda that looked out over the sea. (Later it became a nightclub and then the property of a warlord.) While drinking and watching the sun go down UN staff sitting on the veranda had witnessed a shark attack. A young boy in the shallows was grabbed at the calf and bled copiously into the sea. He was rushed away to hospital. I don't know if he survived.
So swimming on Mogadisciu's town beaches was off limits. The Soviets, guests of Siad Barre, were to blame. with typically manic disregard for environmental fallout, they had put an abattoir for cattle and camel slaughtering above and behind the end of this beach, so all the blood and bits could run down into the sea, delicious for sharks. Rumours also had it that the Russians had blown a hole in the reef to let their aptly named "Aikula" class submarines in and out of the harbour.
The Land cruiser reached shark's bay, on our weekend outing and we were far from the harbour and those town beaches, but now the name of the place, Shark's Bay, was beginning to arouse my suspicions. Were there, in fact, sharks in Sharks' Bay? On the cliff edge, way to our right' we saw men fishing with long lines. But because the weather was so hot and our desire to swim so great, none of us could accept that the name had any significance at all.
We and all the other day-on-the beach expats joked about the name, which was after a large fin shaped rock in the sea.We decided to swim anyway. The beach sloped quickly and tipped us all into into flight across the deep water. Our legs kicked whitely into the gloom. Our family swam across in a little flock to a rock ledge 50 yards away. After a quick and happy breather, cool and refreshed, we peeled back off the rock and one by one started to cross the bay again back to the beach, straggling slowly one behind the other, tired. My fear made me foolish as it does. I imagined I felt something brush against my leg and I told everyone. "Guys, I felt something. If I was you I'd speed up a little." We all now swam at top speed for the shore. We reached the beach, breathing deeply, and my mom was quite angry with me."You've ruined our swim! We've been looking forward to this for such a long time. No, really!"
And I think well, "Good! So long as you don't get bitten by one of the "non-existent" sharks in Sharks Bay, I am happy enough".
To escape the family row Andy decided to walk up the cliff to watch the fishermen and I followed. When we finally got to the fisherman we both looked down their lines into the shallow green sea. Clearly, along the submerged part of the wall of the cliff, we saw shark after shark after shark forming a long line for as far as we could see. Small tiger sharks basking just beneath the surface in orderly calm ranks.A few months later an Italian expat was attacked in the waters of Shark's Bay and nearly bled to death on his bumpy way to hospital in a short-wheel base Landrover.
The UN club was a simple, small, rectangular, flat roofed Italian house with a veranda that looked out over the sea. (Later it became a nightclub and then the property of a warlord.) While drinking and watching the sun go down UN staff sitting on the veranda had witnessed a shark attack. A young boy in the shallows was grabbed at the calf and bled copiously into the sea. He was rushed away to hospital. I don't know if he survived.
So swimming on Mogadisciu's town beaches was off limits. The Soviets, guests of Siad Barre, were to blame. with typically manic disregard for environmental fallout, they had put an abattoir for cattle and camel slaughtering above and behind the end of this beach, so all the blood and bits could run down into the sea, delicious for sharks. Rumours also had it that the Russians had blown a hole in the reef to let their aptly named "Aikula" class submarines in and out of the harbour.
The Land cruiser reached shark's bay, on our weekend outing and we were far from the harbour and those town beaches, but now the name of the place, Shark's Bay, was beginning to arouse my suspicions. Were there, in fact, sharks in Sharks' Bay? On the cliff edge, way to our right' we saw men fishing with long lines. But because the weather was so hot and our desire to swim so great, none of us could accept that the name had any significance at all.
We and all the other day-on-the beach expats joked about the name, which was after a large fin shaped rock in the sea.We decided to swim anyway. The beach sloped quickly and tipped us all into into flight across the deep water. Our legs kicked whitely into the gloom. Our family swam across in a little flock to a rock ledge 50 yards away. After a quick and happy breather, cool and refreshed, we peeled back off the rock and one by one started to cross the bay again back to the beach, straggling slowly one behind the other, tired. My fear made me foolish as it does. I imagined I felt something brush against my leg and I told everyone. "Guys, I felt something. If I was you I'd speed up a little." We all now swam at top speed for the shore. We reached the beach, breathing deeply, and my mom was quite angry with me."You've ruined our swim! We've been looking forward to this for such a long time. No, really!"
And I think well, "Good! So long as you don't get bitten by one of the "non-existent" sharks in Sharks Bay, I am happy enough".
To escape the family row Andy decided to walk up the cliff to watch the fishermen and I followed. When we finally got to the fisherman we both looked down their lines into the shallow green sea. Clearly, along the submerged part of the wall of the cliff, we saw shark after shark after shark forming a long line for as far as we could see. Small tiger sharks basking just beneath the surface in orderly calm ranks.A few months later an Italian expat was attacked in the waters of Shark's Bay and nearly bled to death on his bumpy way to hospital in a short-wheel base Landrover.
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