The Fisherman in the Desert
A Sea Changed, Part 2. What’s behind one-liners in history books?
This is part 2 of the series A Sea Changed. See part 1 for a storm of salt, part 3 for white gold (or, the snowballing of solutions into big problems), part 4 for a T. S. Eliot quote, a theme song by Tom Lehrer, among other things such as public health and air quality, and part 5 for candy and vodka.
Later, we’ll dive into the broader, higher-order, and unseen consequences of the changed Aral sea. Its impact hits a lot closer to home than most people realize.
Merry Christmas to y’all who celebrate. Here’s the most recent Christmas music I listened to, composed by W. A. Mozart.
In the shadow of a ship that loomed like a sleeping dinosaur, I decided to camp.
I barely started to unpack, when I suddenly noticed the silhouette of a man on a distant sandhill. He was looking over us.
“A man is looking at us, there, there,” I called out to Nikolai Genrikhovich, who was plunging a tent stake into the sand, “Who’s he? Is he a robber?” Muynak locals cautioned us against winds and bugs, not robbers.
“Maybe a manager,” he said, “Maybe he wants some money.”
I had no money, only cigarettes for self-styled campground managers. But I didn’t want to take chances. “If he’s a robber?”
“I’ll fight him. He’ll lose,” he waved a tent stake as if demonstrating a Damascus steel knife, “Don’t worry, it’s fine.”
I sighed and told him that I’d start the Lada Niva to back him up, just in case. He was optimistic about his chances in barehanded fights, but still agreed to my plan.
Nikolai Genrikhovich was, if I may say so, a Russian Pollyanna. He’s a distant relative’s friend’s friend’s…somebody. I was told that he was travelling around central Asia, between his translation contracts for foreign companies. We met up in Tashkent, in an import shop run by Chinese merchants, and struck a deal: he’d help improve my Russian, and I’d help him with my fluent languages.
The shadow started moving downhill towards us. In the car, I kept watch.
The shadow stepped into daylight and turned into an old man, with a sun-darkened face under a cap; grey fabrics covered his lanky shape from shoulder to toe. No sign of weapons or accomplices near and far.
Nikolai greeted him by the car’s headlight, and the old man spoke:
"You can't camp here. This is a holy place. Please don't camp here."
Holy place? Muynak locals did not speak of a priest in the desert.
But I had offerings for a priest. Grabbing three tomatoes from a sack on the backseat, I jumped out of the car, dashed into a rapid-fire conversation, and announced in garbled Russian:
"Greetings, sir! We came far. We are here for one day. Only one day. May we camp here, please? We prepared a small gift for you. Thank you!" I held out the three tomatoes in both hands.
The priest looked at me, at Nikolai, back to me again. My arms still extended out. A hush fell.
Then he laughed, “Thank you!” He took the tomatoes with both hands. Having seen that we kept the grounds clean and undisturbed, he retraced towards the dunes.
“He was not a robber,” Nikolai said.
“We are lucky,” I said, pulling out my tent gears, “It’s late, we need to set camp fast.”
The sun was setting when I finally put up the rainfly. In the twilight, a lanky figure sauntered towards us.
It was the priest again. He carried the three tomatoes with him. He said that he wanted to talk to us about why this place was a holy ground.
He spoke slowly, in simple words and with repetitions – he was considerate to my foreign ears.
“I was young, and I was a ship captain. All these hills, here, they were reefs, hidden reefs,” he waved his arms towards the dunes in a commanding gesture. “I knew all of them. I was the best at navigating. Without me, ships didn’t sail,” he flung about backwards and sideways. “There were many ships, all these ships, I knew them too. They were good ships, good fishermen. They were my friends.”
The captain took a bite on a tomato. As his head lowered, the dimming sun glimmered over him like a crown, but faded as soon as his head bobbed back. A hollow crown, I thought. The captain was a king, and he lost his realm.
Lighting a cigarette, the captain continued. “The water was high, waves were harsh. When the water was here, I was young. We sailed out for days, we threw the net, there was fish, always, lots of fish,” A string of nouns that must have been fish names followed. I nodded.
The captain carried on, letting the cigarette burn without smoking, “The sea had more, much more. I liked this girl, Nastya. She was a schoolteacher. She came to watch our swimming competitions, and I won all of them. I brought rare fish to her and her parents. She liked me too. But this –” he looked at me, paused, before resuming. “This terrible fisherman, his name was Vasily – Vasily wanted to steal her from me. I got into fights with him on docks, and…”
Life stories kept flowing from the captain. Occasionally, I’d ask questions, and he’d give impassioned speeches on fishing, ships, Muynak, lost islands, salt and sand storms, and this holy place of his.
“I guard this graveyard of ships. This is my holy ground. Every year, water pulled away, people gave up ships and they left Muynak. This place,” he pointed to sand flats beneath our feet, “Was my ship’s dock 30 years ago.”
Dusk was turning to night. The guardian of this holy ground – and our erstwhile captain – had to return to his home in the dunes. We bid him good night, and watched his silhouette dissolve into darkness.
“Ship captain to graveyard keeper. What a life,” I sighed.
“But you thought he was a robber,” Nikolai said. Then, with a genuine sense of pity, he added, “If he was a robber, it would be more fun.”
I laughed and wished him sweet dreams, and climbed into my own tent. I closed my eyes but couldn’t sleep: the captain’s stories swirled in my mind. The story of Aral sea, like countless others, is a one-liner in history books. But what’s behind these one-liners? The lives, livelihoods, blood, sweat, loves, losses, and tears of countless people like the captain, like you and me.
When I opened my eyes again, I thought someone shone a beacon into my face. But it was only the moon, radiating deep into the night. The stars were still there. The sky was soft dark — the color of nostalgia, I thought. The desert, as still as a lake, remained shadowless.
Suddenly, the moon’s silver light-curtain was rolled back, the desert sand took on a wine-dark hue, the dunes swelled against the light, and I saw a bird flew out to a green shore — and towards it, a swift tide-wave rose up.
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Loved your storytelling here and listening to Sleigh Ride while reading this was SUCH a vibe. 🤌🏻
This is such a beautiful story Helen!!! I'm so inspired. And I absolutely love your conclusion.