Mohammed and the Imaginary Fishermen

A small ship silhouetted on the horizon remains in almost
the same place for several days, maybe more than a week.  We almost never see ships in the Persian Gulf
(Arabian Gulf to some – it depends which side
you come from) which is shallow with myriad bays and inlets stretching
the coastline for thousands of kilometers beyond the imaginations of those who
casually glance at maps.  The large oil
tankers stay to the middle in deep sea channels well away from shore to avoid
running aground because to collide with the earth is always bad for ships and sailors and
usually even worse for those who live on those places on earth where the ship has decided
to collide.  So this particular small
ship could be doing anything from pearl diving to surveying because it
is far to small to be a tanker and it’s far too close to shore. 

Thursday morning I see Mohammed walking in the construction camp,
enjoying a marvelous spring day because the temperatures are still mild and the
rain of last night has cleared the air of dust making everything so fresh we
scarcely believe we are living in Saudi Arabia which is constantly
cast under a pall of brown, mud tasting air.  He’s dressed
comfortably in his mid-length, white, cotton thobe and white, cotton
pants.  He’s got a long – no, crazy long
- gray beard and wears a tagiyah (white cap) 
From his dress, I think he is Pakistani even though his tagiyah is the
wrong shape and in spite of the fact I’ve given him a ride to work at least
once. 

Calling to Mohammed, I ask him if he’s seen the ship because
seeing a ship is big news here in the camp where not much happens.  He tells me he hasn’t so we walk a short
distance to the beach and, stretching my arm in its direction, I show him this
vessel whose purpose I have considered so much in the previous days.  From its silhouette, I conclude it is a dhow
and I Imagine its crew is working hard catching thousands of fish with long poles for our lunch tomorrow.  Mohammed, who is more accustomed to seeing
Westerners cloistered in tightly secured compounds, tells me the ship is at
least a kilometer distant and that I shouldn’t worry, they can’t possibly
molest us from such a distance, aside from which, there are so many military
patrol boats, nothing could possibly happen so we are surely safe. 

I sure as hell don’t want Mohammed to think I’m a sissy who is afraid of a boat, so I tell him why I am curious.  I tell Mohammed I think this is a fishing
boat and I want to know who are these fisherman, where do they come from, what
kind of fish are they trying to catch, what is the fishing season, why do they
stay in this same spot, do they have families, how long have they been on the
water, can they swim, what do they eat, what do the fish eat, where will they
sell their fish, is the fishing good here and do they make a comfortable living,
what are their religions, what are their ages, who is the captain, and on and
on and on……… 

Mohammed asks me why I want to know all of this
information and I answer him saying because life is different here from where I
live and I want to understand the lives of Arabian Gulf fishermen (Persian Gulf to some – it depends which side you come from).  Mohammed turns his gaze to,
possibly reconsidering his notions about my concerns, and tells me this is good.  Then, he laughs and tells me I can have all
of my answers if I want to swim out there. 

Mohammed says he’s from Alexandria and is accustomed to seeing all sorts of ships. 

And I start to think of all the questions I have for him – without even
having to swim.