‘England’, I reply, ‘but I live here now. I’ve been in Cochin for two years’. The children look puzzled until I add ‘I’m now Indian, India is my home. Look!’. I hold up my wrist next to theirs and joke ‘Same colour!’. The children burst into fits of giggles and I half smile, hoping I can convince them that India is indeed my home, at least for the moment.

In Ernakulam, the commercial area of Cochin, I feel pretty much at home. I know the shops, their proprietors and some even know me by name. I believe I am now part of the community and when I tell people India is my home, I mean it.

But really, who am I kidding? On the ferry I am surrounded by Indian tourists. I may be on my way to do my weekly shop, or popping in to the industrial area to pick up some tools, but as far as they are concerned, I too am a tourist. I am forever being asking to pose with them for a photo. “One photo, one photo”, they shout, which really means ‘look at the strange white, fat man! Let’s get a photo of him to show our friends back home’.

The fact is I am, and forever will be, a tourist: I’m rich, by the average Indian’s standards; I live on a boat that I am free to leave on at any time; I own a UK passport; I take photographs constantly, because what I see through the lens is new, exciting and different; I’m pale; I’m big; I dress like a westerner on holiday; I talk strangely. Let’s be honest, there is no such thing as an Indian-born Englishman, at least not in Ernakulam.

So where is my home? What defines my home?

In truth, Esper is my home. Wherever she drops her hook, that’s my home, and for the moment it is India. After two years I can now get off the ferry from Bolgatty and wander into the commercial area of Ernakulam and not get shouted or stared at by the locals. But that doesn’t mean they don’t see me as an outsider. Perhaps it means they have accepted me as a familiar face and the novelty of my presence has worn off, but a local who’s home is Cochin?

No, a local I am not. I’m that odd bloke with a tattoo who lives on that plastic white bubble with two sticks in the expensive marina, a long-term interloper who will one day leave and move on to the next destination. And that will become my new home.

Well, here I am, drinking curried tea. Yes, I’m on my third cup of the morning and it’s really rather good!

In truth it is black tea, the kind your grandparents stored in those vertically mounted plastic tea dispensers from the 60s, very twiggy and woody. After adding a couple of tea spoons of this one then adds half a teaspoon of masala powder. Seriously, it’s not a typo.

Contrary to local tradition we prefer no sugar, no milk, just an extremely refreshing black tea with a very mild kick to it. It is delicious. I’d recommend trying it, and I know Tetley do a Masala tea, but there’s definitely a time and a place for it: in India on a hot day.

Whilst our sailing friends are well aware of the dangers of piracy, it’s not until one reads the numbers that the problem of piracy is put into perspective for the rest of us. It is truly a global concern that affects everyone. In a future post we’ll be putting together a couple of ideas as to how you can help support anti-piracy causes.

According to The Times:

Richard Neylon, who acted for the Chandlers, the British couple released last November after 13 months held by Somali pirates, said: “The number of crew and vessels captured is increasing, size of ransom is increasing and the length of time of capture is increasing.”

Mr Neylon, whose firm generally keeps a low profile, said in an interview that piracy was now a “major global concern” and that nowhere in the Indian Ocean was safe. The pirates had extended their reach from the Gulf of Aden and were thought to be costing the global economy pounds $12 billion a year.

Holman Fenwick Willan is one of the few London law firms that negotiate for the release of the vessels, and each one could have 20 hijacked ships on its books at any one time.

The firm has acted for shipowners and insurance brokers in about 70 hijack cases in the past few years and the workload is rising. In that time, the average period of capture has grown to six months, usually involving crew of 20-25 people held in horrific conditions.

Typically captives end up with a range of physical illnesses including skin diseases and malnourishment, as well as psychological trauma.

The owners’ options are limited: refuse to negotiate, which means losing a ship; negotiate but refuse to pay a ransom and perhaps send a priest or imam, which is unlikely to work; rely on military intervention but that risks death and damage to the vessel; or pay private military.

The latter brings problems of legality, compliance and the need to obtain arms, which does not go down well with shipowners.

That leaves the option of paying ransom.

Mr Neylon declines to discuss details of how negotiations are conducted but the law firms deal with a number of intermediaries, including military and intelligence sources as well as security companies.

More than 30,000 ships pass through the region a year and “everyone has to take precautionary measures at a cost of dollars 20,000-dollars 30,000 a ship. For the industry it is a huge problem.”

As for capturing the pirates, “where do you attempt to try them? Do you fly them back to the UK? Or, say, take them to Kenya or the Seychelles – where there is a large number awaiting trial already? Often, they are let go. This is not a deterrent.

“The coalition naval forces are doing all they can with limited resources, but the marine industry is demanding action from the international community.

Ultimately, the problem is that there are very poor people who have little else on offer who have found a way of making money.”

Mr Neylon welcomed the promise of extra funding. The money will improve surveillance and help Somalia, Kenya and Seychelles to prosecute offenders.

Source: The Times