Eric McCormack - Cloud

Obviously, then, no islander with any sense had the slightest use for Dupont’s services. If the international agency that had sent him to build the clinic had first done the groundwork to grasp this basic tenet of island culture, they’d have saved themselves both time and money.

NOW, IN HIS CABIN aboard the SS Otago , Dupont concluded his story.

“I think if I’d stayed on that island a little longer, I might have become a total convert,” he said. “I just needed a few more fish-licking sessions to clarify my thinking.”

He laughed, and I laughed, too. I couldn’t always be sure what to make of him. He’d admitted before that his desire to work in various exotic parts of the world satisfied his love of risk and danger as much as any humanitarian impulse. No doubt, that conflicted with my idealistic notions about the kind of man a doctor ought to be.

“Well, Harry,” he said, “all this talk about the good old days makes me feel like having a smoke.” Then, in a stage whisper: “I just happen to have some kief handy.”

He went to his desk and returned with one of those pipes I’d seen the crew use. He filled it, lit it up, and sucked on it. Then, holding his breath, he offered it to me.

Not wanting to offend him, I took the pipe and inhaled. The smoke smelled fine, but the taste was awful. I choked and coughed until my lungs were clear.

Dupont’s beard jingled from laughing.

“Kief’s just like life,” he said. “Sometimes it takes your breath away.”

The Otago had been at sea more than two weeks now. The skies were still overcast for the most part, but the water was much smoother and the air was becoming so steamy that the crew worked on deck without shirts. My seasickness, if that’s what it was, hadn’t abated even with the pills Dupont had given me. One day on deck when he was talking about its persistence he made a suggestion.

“Look, why don’t you disembark at Racca,” he said. “You could travel with me to the hospital and see a bit of the country while you’re at it. If it’s just seasickness you’re suffering from, being on land for a while should get rid of it. If it’s something else, I can treat it properly when we get to the hospital.”

The hospital was a hundred miles inland from the port of Racca. Dupont had worked there for the last few years and brought it up to date. It had been built to cater to the needs of scattered tribal peoples on the fringes of the desert, mainly women with complications from childbirth.

“Clara’s the head nurse — you’d meet her if you come with me,” he said. His eyes softened at the mention of her name. He’d referred to her often, so I guessed he was very fond of her. “What do you think? It might be fun.”

The idea of leaving the ship appealed to me, as I was still an outcast amongst the crew. But there was the matter of my contract: I’d signed on for the return voyage, too.

“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Dupont said. “I’ll speak to the captain right away.”

HE WAS AS GOOD as his word. He advised the captain that it would be wise to release me from the contract because of my health problems.

The captain was quite agreeable.

“He’ll have no trouble replacing you,” Dupont told me. “It seems there’s no shortage of sailors in Racca looking for ships. They don’t like being stuck there, so they’ll sign on with any ship that’s leaving.”

I found that hard to believe, for by then I’d had more than enough of ships. Terra firma couldn’t possibly be worse.

THE DAWN AIR was stifling when the SS Otago arrived at the port city of Racca. Or, at least, near the port, which was on the northern outskirts of the city. Ships of our tonnage had to anchor in the deep water just beyond the breakers, a half mile out from the shoreline. The water inshore was too shallow for them.

The Otago came to a halt and the engine was cut. A welcoming party of a million mosquitoes and stinging flies came rushing aboard to greet us.

THE PERILOUS operation of unloading the cargo soon began. Everything had to be transferred into shallower draft rowboats that came out from the port and surrounded the Otago like kittens suckling on a restless mother cat. My shipmates disliked this transferring of cargo. There was a grisly history of mutilations and drownings that had occurred during the process.

As it turned out, my last job as a member of the crew was a good deal less dangerous. Instead of unloading the mute and uncooperative cargo, I was to help ferry Dupont and the other three passengers ashore in the ship’s boat.

Nonetheless, even that task was nerve-racking. The boat was lowered by a pulley to the sea thirty feet below. An experienced sailor climbed down the hull on a swaying rope ladder and jumped into the bow of the boat. He then fended it off the hull and kept it as steady as possible in the swell while I assisted the passengers and their luggage down. Last, I managed to lower myself successfully.

With the passengers all safely aboard and the luggage stowed, the veteran sailor took charge of the oars and rowed the boat through massive breakers, which were being patrolled by squadrons of sharks. Only Dupont, who’d been ferried this way several times before, didn’t seem too worried that we might breach and spill into the jaws of the sharks. To everyone else’s relief, we eventually reached the shore. Obeying my last order as a crew member, I jumped into the shallows and pulled the boat the last few feet onto the beach.

Standing at last on solid ground wasn’t quite what I’d expected. The sandy beach seemed to roll just as unpredictably as the ocean and I’d trouble keeping my balance. For a while I felt like an alien creature, at home neither on land nor sea.

THOUGH I’D HEARD from the crew that Racca was smelly and overcrowded, I wouldn’t have minded exploring it for a while. But Dupont already knew the city well and had no desire to linger. Instead, from the port he arranged places for us as passengers in the bed of an open truck that had wooden sides and rear. It was ready to leave and would transport us from the coast into the dense bush of the hinterland.

“Not that we have any choice, but a truck’s really the only way to travel if you want to get a sense of this country — it’ll be an education for you,” Dupont said as we squatted behind the truck’s cabin. “This one will take us right to the hospital door.” These trucks acted as buses, going from village to village along the way, picking up and dropping off passengers. With any luck, we’d arrive at the hospital before sundown.

Some other passengers boarded, the truck’s engine roared, the gears crashed, and we lurched on our way. At first we had to stop and start frequently as we traversed the messy sprawl of the suburbs around the port. Then we left modern life behind and entered the band of primeval jungle that separated us from the grasslands and the desert.

The roads had now become trails that were potholed and deeply fissured from lack of repair. Sudden violent rainstorms would turn them into rushing torrents with steep, muddy banks. The truck would have to clamber out of them and stop till the rains let up, which usually took only a few minutes. Then the water level would sink enough to make travel possible once more.

As we proceeded farther into the jungle, I sometimes felt slightly feverish. The huge trees leaning over the trail became an endless library with bookcase after bookcase full of the same tattered book, or a monotonous canyon of slums in an oddly sweltering Tollgate.

But in spite or because of my stupor, I was generally at ease. The jungle’s dark embrace, limiting our horizon to only a few yards in all directions, was at this point more comforting to me than the sea’s endless vistas.