And all of it in the harsh sun, Dawson thought, wiping his drenched forehead.
Abraham led the way to a quieter part of the harbor, weaving in between shacks where mechanics were repairing outboard motors and carpenters were building new trawlers. Compared to the area they had just left, the vessels here were canoes of different sizes pulled up on the shore or moored in shallow water with makeshift cloth canopies for shade.
One of the fishermen, a densely muscular man of thirty-ish, was darning his fishing net, a portion of it hooked over his big toe to keep the net’s tension as he deftly repaired holes and tears with a large needle. His deeply black skin glistened in the sun.
“Clay!” Abraham called out.
The man looked up and grinned as he saw them approaching. He put down the net and skipped out of the canoe.
“Abe, my brother! How are you?”
Abraham introduced Dawson as his cousin and asked Clay if Forjoe was around.
“I haven’t seen him today,” Clay said.
He called out to three fishermen on an adjacent canoe, asking them if they knew where Forjoe was.
“I think he went to the house,” one of them replied.
Abe thanked them and went on with Dawson. At the top of the incline not far from where they had parked, they crossed the street to a ramshackle group of houses around a small compound. A teenage boy was washing clothes in a wide metal pan, and a woman was hanging them out to dry on the line.
“Good afternoon,” Abraham greeted her. “Have you seen Forjoe?”
“He’s inside,” the woman said, pointing her chin at the door behind him. “Wait, I’ll call him.”
She wiped her hands and went to knock on the door, the top half of which was a large opening covered with torn mosquito netting.
A voice answered. “Who is it?”
“Some people are here to see you,” she said in Fante.
“I’m coming.”
It was too dark in the room to see anything from outside. Forjoe emerged from the gloom putting on a T-shirt as he came to the door. He smiled as he saw them.
“Abraham! How are you?”
They shook hands and Abraham introduced Dawson to Forjoe the same way as he had done with Clay. Forjoe was around 28, short and as solid as a brick house. He dragged over a couple plastic chairs and invited the two men to sit down while he took a seat himself on a nearby wooden stool.
“So what brings you here today?” he asked.
“My cousin wanted to meet you,” Abraham said.
“Oh, is that so?” Forjoe said, looking at Dawson with interest.
“Abraham tells me you sometimes hire his canoe to other fishermen,” Dawson said.
