<p>Some years ago, I was in Llandudno, North <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/wales">Wales</a>, on an accident investigation. A cargo ship, caught up in a storm, had grounded on the rocky seabed. The vessel soon broke up, plunging all twenty crew members into the icy water. They were rescued by the coastguard and airlifted to safety. All of them were Polish nationals, and except for the master, no one spoke any English.</p>.<p>We arrived the next day and hired a meeting room in the hotel they were staying at. Interviewing the traumatised crew, one by one, with the help of a professional interpreter, was exhausting. After five interviews, I decided to step outside for some fresh air. Walking around in the hotel garden, I noticed someone smoking a cigarette at the far end of the veranda. I recognised him by his drooping walrus moustache. He was the second witness I had interviewed that morning, the able-bodied seaman, or AB.</p>.<p>The ship owners had told me that they would be arranging a bus to repatriate the entire crew to Poland. Walking over to him, I made an attempt to make small talk, knowing fully well he spoke no English.</p>.The unspoken pet pact.<p>“You – home – tomorrow?” I spoke slowly with a pause of a few seconds between each word.</p>.<p>“You – what?” He looked puzzled. Language problem, I concluded.</p>.<p>I tried again. “You”, I said, poking him in the chest with my index finger and pointing east in the general direction of Poland, “go – home – HOME. By bus, BUS.”</p>.<p>I mimicked a bus driver manoeuvring a bus with its low-set steering wheel. Getting carried away with my charade and remembering an Indian state transport bus of the 70s, I squeezed an imaginary rubber horn with my right hand while continuing to steer deftly with the left. “Pom Pom”.</p>.<p>He looked at me in total bewilderment. It was as if he didn’t trust his eyes and his ears. Post-traumatic stress, my well-honed sense of accident investigator’s empathy told me. I too would feel the same if my ship had broken up into pieces. I didn’t give up and continued to drive my imaginary bus. For further clarity, I used the double-shift gear stick to move up a gear or two. Zero comprehension. He just shook his head in frustration and looked around as if seeking help.</p>.<p>Just then, a woman emerged from the hotel kitchen nearby. The ‘AB’ turned to her and said,</p>.<p>“Lucy, could you help this chap, please? He’s been trying to tell me something, but he hardly speaks any English! I haven’t got the foggiest idea what he is on about.”</p>.<p>And just as I was beginning to understand the situation, the real AB with the walrus moustache walked past us shouting at someone on his phone in Polish.</p>
<p>Some years ago, I was in Llandudno, North <a href="https://www.deccanherald.com/tags/wales">Wales</a>, on an accident investigation. A cargo ship, caught up in a storm, had grounded on the rocky seabed. The vessel soon broke up, plunging all twenty crew members into the icy water. They were rescued by the coastguard and airlifted to safety. All of them were Polish nationals, and except for the master, no one spoke any English.</p>.<p>We arrived the next day and hired a meeting room in the hotel they were staying at. Interviewing the traumatised crew, one by one, with the help of a professional interpreter, was exhausting. After five interviews, I decided to step outside for some fresh air. Walking around in the hotel garden, I noticed someone smoking a cigarette at the far end of the veranda. I recognised him by his drooping walrus moustache. He was the second witness I had interviewed that morning, the able-bodied seaman, or AB.</p>.<p>The ship owners had told me that they would be arranging a bus to repatriate the entire crew to Poland. Walking over to him, I made an attempt to make small talk, knowing fully well he spoke no English.</p>.The unspoken pet pact.<p>“You – home – tomorrow?” I spoke slowly with a pause of a few seconds between each word.</p>.<p>“You – what?” He looked puzzled. Language problem, I concluded.</p>.<p>I tried again. “You”, I said, poking him in the chest with my index finger and pointing east in the general direction of Poland, “go – home – HOME. By bus, BUS.”</p>.<p>I mimicked a bus driver manoeuvring a bus with its low-set steering wheel. Getting carried away with my charade and remembering an Indian state transport bus of the 70s, I squeezed an imaginary rubber horn with my right hand while continuing to steer deftly with the left. “Pom Pom”.</p>.<p>He looked at me in total bewilderment. It was as if he didn’t trust his eyes and his ears. Post-traumatic stress, my well-honed sense of accident investigator’s empathy told me. I too would feel the same if my ship had broken up into pieces. I didn’t give up and continued to drive my imaginary bus. For further clarity, I used the double-shift gear stick to move up a gear or two. Zero comprehension. He just shook his head in frustration and looked around as if seeking help.</p>.<p>Just then, a woman emerged from the hotel kitchen nearby. The ‘AB’ turned to her and said,</p>.<p>“Lucy, could you help this chap, please? He’s been trying to tell me something, but he hardly speaks any English! I haven’t got the foggiest idea what he is on about.”</p>.<p>And just as I was beginning to understand the situation, the real AB with the walrus moustache walked past us shouting at someone on his phone in Polish.</p>
