Philemon
Rank: Deputy Captain
Vessel: Saa Moja

Photo: Philemon reading Nigerian Elechi Amadi's "The Great Pond", which I bought for his exercise in reading English

Philemon, in his 30's,  first appeared as a painter on Daniel's shipyard. I had agreed with the shipyard that I should buy the paint (because I did not trust the contents of the cans they would produce to smear on my dhow).  When Philemon first arrived, I had just taken over the management from Daniel and paid the painters directly. Who would be the one among the painters who would be settling the division of money among themselves? I had no clue, I had to ask. The leader of the three or four group turned out to be a low profile tall thin guy under an old round straw hat that gave him an distinctive air of limited intelligence. All painters were Mgita (tribe around Musoma neighbouring the Maasai). I was warned, by others, to watch the daily remains of the paint and the brushes, they were thieves. Naturally, one day I thought indeed I lost some paint, but failed to nail them down.
The Mgita were all living in Kirumba, the harbour quarter of Mwanza. They were walking one and a half hours to Bwiru forth and back to do the job, but they were there, in time, every morning, at eight, putting the red oxide and grey epoxy outside, and loads of linseed oil, five layers at least, inside. During painting, they kept so low that I do not see them on a picture of the Dhow Logbooks of the time, nor did I mention any of them. The only thing you see there is the dhow itself, being shown and praised for its beautiful appearance after painting.
The Philemon surprise came when the sail was to be made. Contractor Daniel had quoted, in an absurdly early stage, a price for the rig: we would needed 600 m2 of cotton, prices were going up but Daniel knew a seller for the old price of $ 500 only. This smelled more than fishy and I of course refused. Now rig making was to be started, Daniel turned out to have no clue on where exactly to put the mast, neither of what lengths mast and folmali should have, nor what size and shape the sail should be. All eyes shifted to "painter" Philemon. He knew, but did not know how to calculate the appropriate size. So, on a computer spreadsheet inspired by Daniels initial fraudulent bid for money, I sized up proportionally to my dhow length the typical dhow rigs you see in Mwanza, arriving at 142 m² instead of Daniels 600, went  to the cotton shop with Philemon, and paid $150 instead of Daniels 500, confirming that prices had not gone up in the five months since Daniel's alarming news and quotation and there never even had been a rumour about such a possibility. Now Philemon stepped in the middle of the story: with him I bought the remaining necessities for the sail making, Eucalyptus stems for mast and folmali, steel wire for halyard and stays, quanting poles, the wheel to lead halyard through the masttop. Philemon did all the carpentry for the rig, taught Daniel how and where to make the bottom support (mustamu) for the mast, even how to make the rudder. He was the uncontested leader in the extremely hazardous operation of mounting the mast on the dhow with 7 men by manual power lifting.
At that time Mwanza Immigration Office was already hunting for my money by making difficulties on my perfect visa for Tanzania, and we had to think of being forced to leave Tanzania soon, shifting our efforts from finishing the deck to first making the dhow ready for sailing any time they would force us to go. While shopping and discussing technical matters with Philemon, I had already heard enough: Philemon would be my main crew member and he would be charged with proposing the others.
But he would be more: I was arrested for the second time, now by police, but on initiative of Mwanza Immigration, alleging I was dangerous, and jailed. After searching in vain for something suitable to bring me in trouble, Mwanza Immigration banned me from the country before I could take any legal action against this sensational misbehaviour, clearly meant to force me to leave the dhow behind.

Photo: Bwiru, Mwanza, the site where we planned to finish the dhow. But now preparing for my expulsion from Tanzania. Philemon, just left of dhow, with the characteristic straw hat that gives him - intentionally, I suspect - that distinctive air of limited intelligence

In a sober but solemn private session, I gave Philemon my letter appointing him to acting captain of the Saa Moja

In in my absence, while I was phoning, faxing and emailing documents and instructions from Uganda to keep the dhow out of the claws of the Tanzanian government officials, Philemon played a decisive role keeping contractor Daniel, my clearing agent, the Mwanza customs office and my lawyer on the move. He helped, with Doi, to secure the most valuable of my property left on the dhow, though he could not prevent massive looting by Daniel, my security men, and some workers of Daniel's shipyard en the wood workshop of the African Inland Church.
So, in the end Philemon did not only propose but even hired crew, and set off to Jinja along the West side of the lake. On the last few hundred meters before Uganda he was caught by Tanzanian lake police and kidnapped for ransom. He was summoned by police to let me come and pay a million, that is: $ 900. After some delaying of my side he was allowed to go to the Ugandan border harbour Kassansero to take the money. Philemon suggested to me there that half of the money would be enough. I did not really believe it, but decided to give it a try. A few hours later the dhow appeared at the Kassansero beach: while Philemon was off, police had started to fear. The papers had been returned and they had been released, though somehow crew had decided to agree giving the last money ($22) they had. To the astonishment of his crew, Philemon told me no ransom had been paid and returned to me the $ 450, a fortune in their terms. Philemon's feat, unbelievably stupid to any right-minded African, is now well known all over Mwanza.
I joined Philemon and his crew to sail to Jinja, a trip where, except for determining the destination, not even the magic of my GPS could provide me with any authority over Philemon and his mainly Mgita crew.

Photo: Not even the magic of my GPS could provide me with any authority over Philemon and his mainly Mgita crew (Philemon points at where the GPS wants them to go)

Thereupon the crew applied for the job of finishing the boat, but after their half way attempts, to the embarrassment of Philemon, to break open the agreement I sent them all off, Philemon included - for camouflage, I told Philemon, adding that we could agree on other jobs for him after he had accompanied his lot to Mwanza.
After a while I invited Philemon to become my boat master and finish the dhow with me. He arrived mid April 2006. On the phone, he simply says he is in Uganda, not with me. Except for his wife nobody knows he is on my boat. This is to prevent to be harassed by phone calls from job applicants.

Photo: Jinja, source of the Nile, Philemon filling the deck holes left by fitting nails

As a sailor, Philemon is top, even to Mwanza standards. This includes the crafts of sail making and the techniques general maintenance. He acquired all this only in the last eight years, simply because eight years ago his father, not a sailor, decided to spend his savings to build a dhow for commodity transport. Philemon, completely fresh to the trade, was on the shipyard from the beginning. His father, who never sailed with it, made him captain. Six years later he knew everything about dhows, had transported everything from wood, crates of beer and cows to a long line of canoes towed behind him, survived several lake police robbery and extortion attempts, but then lost the dhow in  bad storm. The rudder broke lengthwise, the heavily loaded boat, out of control, turned square on the waves and tore from front to back along the keel. A towing attempt led to rocks that did the mincing. That left him jobless on his compound in Kirumba, the harbour district of Mwanza, where he lives with his wife, two young children and his younger brother.
Philemon works at my dhow as if it is his own. This is quite unusual to East African standards.

Photo: Philemon thirsty while applying anti wood borer insect chemical to our soft woods.

Some days before he was going to leave for Mwanza we started suspecting we had a more serious leak. One of the bolts Benedict had used to mount an additional beam to the keel is not dry, we know. There could be another bolt with the same problem. Fortunately, careful inspection had a reassuring result. I had been worried the night before the planned check. So had Philemon, but we had not shared the feeling. Now came the relief, and we talked.
If it would have been under the mustamu, Philemon said, I would not have gone home (the mustamu is the big beam on the bottom frames above the keel in keel direction, it is the support of the mast and there indeed are keel bolts under it (see photo: mustamu). A leak there would mean we would have had to lift the mast, and perform some more near-impossible operations).
I replied: I thought you were going to say: "... then I would go and never come back".
We could laugh again.
When we are not sailing Philemon is usually at home in Mwanza with his family. But when there has been much rain he will call me to say the sail has to taken out of the store and spread over the deck to dry.
In the weeks before we had been caulking and painting the deck. Quite a hopeless job, since deck leaks would reappear quickly after some sunny days (when the deck becomes too hot to stand on barefoot). The last day Philemon was closing leaks frantically. He wanted to leave the ship without deck leaks, though he knew the job was near hopeless.
Philemon also tends to sail the dhow as if it is his: he will, for instance, sail too low to an island despite my remarks. Then, when he gets in trouble he just manages, with concentrated frown, to sail free:

Photo: Philemon: concentrated, not diverted by the flies, sailing as high as possible to pass a island cape after stubbornly sailing in too low - at least that is what had I told him - in time - but he made it. With a dhow, there is no tacking, and half wind (beam reach) is as high as you get. If you don't make it over a high point, you have to anchor and wait for a wind shift.

It is not unusual for me to hear the grazing sound of anchor pulling early morning, still dark, in my bed. When I come on deck, Philemon will tell me: we are leaving...On another occasion the utmost of my energy was needed to stop him from gibing because he thought he could not steer free of an island, even though he would surely make it.
His vision is awesome. He will say: that man on the beach caught a snake! I do not even see it with my binoculars. Let me honestly add that once I saw with my binoculars that what he said were people really were stones. But without binoculars I would not have seen either. His vision becomes straightforwardly incomprehensible in moonless nights: Doi, sitting in front with a heavy flashlight of full car headlight calibre, does not see that fisherman's canoe that we have to steer around, Philemon does. Fishing canoes have no lights, nor has any other boat, except some of the big international ferries. As to wind direction, Philemon's tell tale is his head. He feels the wind direction change by the way it passes his ears from behind. When wind is down the level where I light a cigar to see were the smoke is going, the only thing he does is stand up to have his head above the steering deck roof.
The cycle of the day: my crew, both Doi and Philemon, display an amazing activity at sunrise. First, they frantically brush their teeth for a long time, looking at the sunrise (teeth-brushing is one of the few genuine successes of the white men's influence in Africa). While I am still attempting to kick-start my brain with strong coffee, Doi and Philemon sweep the steering deck, wash last evening's dishes and confiscate my clothes for cleaning. After that, it is time for strong tea with an enormous, I would say indigestible amount of milk powder and sugar, sweet white bread with Blue Band margarine. Between one and three, when moored, they are, if they have no orders, sleeping under de steering deck. Then it is maize porridge (Italian: polenta, Kiswahili: ugali, Luganda: posho) and fish, another nap or two, after which they jump in the lake and wash to prepare for the last hours before sunset: the time to dress neatly and go to the shore for some evening socializing! At dusk, they return to the ship and around nine they prepare another ugali with fish. Off to bed. Rain interrupts this program: when it rains, you sleep. It does not matter whether it is day, night, morning, afternoon, evening: when it rains you sleep. This is a general feature in East Africa. When it rains, even many shops close. Do not try to do anything when it rains: the world sleeps.
With Philemon around, when we have guests, I will find beds prepared with cushions, sheets, blankets and mosquito nets before I have a chance to give an order. When guests arrive, he introduces himself and retires until he is asked to join. Once having joined the group, he is not shy to tell a story or six.
Sometimes, at periods when I am enjoying myself, moored somewhere, meeting friends, I am worried Doi and Philemon will get bored. But Philemon simply finds his own jobs on board (extremely unusual to African standards): suddenly, it seems to have been time to lift all floor pieces one by one and clean the place. On another occasion we turn out to have a linseed oil leftover to be brushed on our new hardwood steering deck roof. Once some jobs are done, the captain's books get Philemon's attention: quite some novels by African authors, but Marco Polo's travels are not shunned, and not even Machiavelli's Prince:

Photo: Philemon about to finish Machiavelli's Il Principe: "This man, ajajajajaj!"

When Philemon is reading, he will not notice anything said to him, until voices are raised over quite an awesome threshold. Then he wakes up as out of a deep sleep, almost terrified. I saw him writing excerpts, in neat handwriting, very well ordered, copying drawings and maps, especially of the historical and geographical chapters of my East Africa travel book, for his children, so I bought him a thick exercise book to keep everything together.
I had to take him out of what appeared to be days of study of my GPS manual to tell him that this was a matter of first understanding the earth grid, not explained in the manual, and then us practicing together by pressing the buttons of the machine and learn what it was doing.
As to music: Philemon starts to whistle when I play string quartets of Shostakovich, but to my ears he is simply whistling something else. He starts to smile broadly hearing Pharoa Sanders, the classic Monk/Coltrane album, and...Lennie Tristano! He is completely amazed when I sing unison with a bebop melody, calls Doi from the front deck to witness this miracle, and I have to explain I have been a jazz saxophonist and heard them hundreds of times.
Local songs he sings comprise the ones by the Tanzanian singer Kakamani, about Tanzania police and crime (click here).
Philemon does not drink, though serious drinking is common in his family, as in Africa generally, to the degree in which it dangerously drains family budgets. As a result, when his mother got a very bad and painful ulcer on her foot that had to be operated, though the entire family stopped working and sat - with a beer? - by her bed for weeks, the full financial burden fell on Philemon. "If you have no money in Tanzania you can die", he said. All the money he earned with me went in and he even had to sell some of his furniture. Being with the sick family member at such moments is more important to African standards than providing the money for the cure. As a result, Philemon could not come during my father's visit, thus also missing the wage.
Philemon, raised in the Mara region, knows a lot about animals and is very interested in them. Unlike the normal modern African, he is not inclined to kick, stone, otherwise torture and kill everything that moves (though he did, of course, kill them, see for instance the python story). He clearly thinks of animals as fellow beings, closely observing what they are doing and amusing himself, like me, with raising quasi human motives for their actions. After hearing that Banda Island was visited by hippos, he slept there on the deck not to miss a moment of their presence. He does not know the English names of animals, but fortunately I have pictures of most of them in my computer, so we can make sure we are talking about the same. For his children, who live in Mwanza and never see wild animals, he asked me to print these pictures.

Go to: our later visit to his house in Mwanza, and to his home village in Majita