The hot humid air, lightly scented with the lingering smell of gasoline made a pleasant change to the rainy summer nights we had recently been dealt in Dublin. I made my way to the front of the boat, just as a full golden moon arose over the Mediterranean. Silently, as if in a dream I looked out across the great expanse of water, where the rows of unlit apartments in front of me, only served to show that many people only used the waterfront residences as an address and probably lived elsewhere. So, this was Monaco, where tanned Gucci bags replaced the familiar green and white of Dunnes Stores and everything that glittered, if not gold, was probably platinum.
On the south side of the port was the Rock de Monaco Ville, a craggy column of land, upon which the cliff top fortress of the ruling Grimaldi family nestled. The building appeared to be central to most of the activity in the port, a fitting symbol to the legendary Genoese family, who some locals in the port informed us, were the world’s oldest reigning dynasty. They also told us that the family first entered the palace when a thirteenth century relative of theirs dressed up in the clothes of a Franciscan monk and arrived at the front gates of the building looking for alms. After the doors were opened, the holy man threw off his robes and killed the astonished guards, thereby allowing a waiting army to enter the building. On the other side of the port lay the affluent district of Monte Carlo, a famed gambling area that had brought great wealth to Monaco in the late nineteenth century. It was here that the needle-like racecars had earlier threaded their way through the long tunnel at the Virage du Portier and the warm long yellow lights of the Casino de Monte Carlo melted back into the colder slate blue waters of the harbour. At this time of night, the canvas of colours left half of the marina carpeted in an olive green hue, a strange hue that reminded me of an old sleeping bag that I had stolen a few months before in Kenya.
In the stillness, no breeze moved and only the high-pitched whine of a passing black Ferrari brought me back from the distant memories of cow bells tinkling and of course that fateful night bus to Mombassa. The matatu had been ambushed by guerrilla troops and I was lucky amidst the confusion to be able to hide most of my valuables except my graduation watch under a nearby seat. It was not an uncommon sight in present day Kenya to see vehicles that had been ransacked with distraught and sometimes bloodied passengers sifting through the contents of their lives that now littered the highway. For a while, I looked again towards the south, where the black headed gulls gathered on the Rock, on beyond the Oceanographic Museum where the diving saucers of Jacques Cousteau lay berthed, to the far off lands of Africa. These were desperate times on the continent, as some 250 million people south of the Sahara now lived in abject poverty, totally unable to meet their basic needs. Returning to Europe had indeed been a sobering experience for me and quickly made one realise how completely different these two worlds were becoming.
"Rein ne va plus" was a phrase not familiar in Africa, but if it existed it would probably mean no more bets would be taken about which one of the starving children would live until morning. I watched the moon brighten the belle époque facades of the nearby Hotel de Paris and thought about the disparity in the lives of the people that I had recently encountered. Rumours abounded around the yacht that Michael Schumacher had been helicoptered back to Ferrari’s Fiorano testing track to practice his starts for tomorrow’s race. It went without saying that there would be no practice starts for the millions of African children who would be born into lands scorched by a merciless sun with only the screeches of prowling predators to accompany their forlorn cries of hunger.
"Would you like some more champagne?" asked one of my friends who had joined me from below. I politely refused the request, my thirst now quenched by the moral ochre from some far off setting sun.
"You know it’s forty dollars a glass in a nightclub up the street and a glass of sparkling water is only two dollars less!"
"That certainly should entice you to drink it all night!" he laughingly continued.
That evening in Monaco as the moon rose higher in the sky and the scent of Chanel slowly supplanted the memorable smell of smouldering cow dung, I thought again about the decadent lifestyle now symbolised before me in a small glass of champagne. For a moment I again hesitated, remembering those unfortunate people whom I had met who now faced drought and starvation in that beautiful and unforgiving land. Maybe it was fitting at that moment also that somebody started playing U2's album ‘Rattle and Hum’ on the stereo system and the immortal words that Bono had written for John Lennon echoed loudly around the cabin.
"Don't believe the devil - I don't believe his book
But the truth is not the same without the lies he made up
I don't believe in excess - success is to give
I don't believe in riches but you should see where I live
I - I believe in love"
I turned towards my friend, mindful of the vocalist's expensive property on Killiney Beach and his untiring work in trying to eliminate the debt that Africa owed the First World.
"Of course I'll have another glass..Sure if it's good enough for Bono, it's good enough for me!" I answered.
"Oh, I didn't know that Bono was a Champagne man!" he replied, before filling my up glass and returning back to the party.
