On a sultry Tuesday morning in March 1951, I left Karachi on the St. Jan, a cargo ship belonging to the East Asiatic Company of Copenhagen, Denmark. I was on my way to Antwerp and then to London to complete my studies.

It was a small ship, clean and compact, just under 7,200 tonnes, with a single screw triple expansion steam piston engine that had a maximum service speed of 10 knots. However, it was the cheapest and only passage my father could obtain as the Lloyd-Triestino ocean liners that sailed to Genoa were fully booked.

There were two passenger cabins. I shared one with an Anglo-Pakistani whose Christian name was Arnold, while the other compartment was occupied by his two sisters. There were only four people at the wharf to see us off — Arnold’s parents and my parents.

What a contrast to Bombay where those huge, white ocean liners with their three funnels used to leave Ballard Pier for Southampton with over a 100 visitors with quivering lips and moist eyes flickering their goodbyes at the rail like poplar leaves.

It wasn’t long before the gallant little Danish ship slipped out of the harbour without ceremony and gyrated to the piston throb and hungry bows bit open another horizon. We were alone. Totally alone. Even the seagulls had deserted us.

All we could see on all four sides was water, greyish-green water with occasional flecks of white.

Our meals were taken in the dining room along with the Danish captain, the English doctor and a couple of senior officers one of whom was a huge Swedish radio operator who had a permanent wheezy huskiness which made it necessary for him to be always clearing his throat.

The cook was a Chinese from Hong Kong. He prepared the most delicious meals and possessed that certain inscrutability that Westerners are often predisposed to look for in the Chinese.

Our first port of call was Aden where we docked for two days. A lot of loading and unloading of goods took place. The St Jan was dwarfed by the huge majestic cruise ships which were greeted by the harbour master with a certain reverence.

Aden had a certain rustic charm and breathtaking scenery. I remember seeing a two-shilling banknote which carried a portrait of King George VI, sovereign of an empire on which the sun never set.

There was also an imposing lighthouse. After taking on freshwater, we entered the hot and humid Red Sea. Port Suez was my first introduction to Egypt. Passengers were known to take overland trips to the pyramids of Giza and to rejoin their vessels at Port Said. But we stayed on board.

After docking at Suez, a clutch of small boats approached and merchants selling rugs and a whole lot of curios climbed onto the deck and spread their wares. The only customers who showed any interest were Arnold’s two sisters who had no intention of buying anything and the Swede who ended up purchasing a stack of naughty French postcards and a tiny bottle of Spanish Fly, a drug extracted from a green beetle with supposed aphrodisiac effects.

After the salesmen had departed the Swede retired to his cabin, slipped off the yellow cellophane wrapper and discovered he had been sold 50 aspirins. That was when we all heard a yell which was in between the last trump and a lion on the Serengeti calling for his supper.

Now came the Suez Canal, that great narrow waterway that joined the lower half of the world with the blue Mediterranean. We crossed the 160-km channel at night. There was a full moon. As it was very warm, I sat on the deck for a while and watched the sand dunes bathed in silver gently gliding by.

The only sound I could hear came from the radio which was playing Claude Debussy’s Claire de Lune. After that I dreamed of Gene Tierney in a sarong on the isle of sorrows. We stopped for a while at Port Said and when we chugged our way out of the harbour, I noticed the water had changed colour from a greenish gray to a bluish green. The weather had become cooler.

After we reached Beirut, the captain said that he and a couple of officers were going ashore to visit a night club and wanted to know if I’d like to join them. I thanked him and said I would much rather see a movie. And so it came to pass that I landed at the Rivoli Cinema which was showing an American film.

There were Arabic and French subtitles, so one set of eyes moved from right to left and the other set moved from left to right. As I had been taught the King’s English in a boarding school in India, I kept my eyes glued to the screen.

However, the chap who had been sitting next to me on the right was intrigued and after the audience had filed into the foyer asked me in broken English where I was from. I said Karachi. He obviously hadn’t heard of the place but nodded as if he did. ‘Who are your companions and where are they?’

Apparently tourists travelled in groups for safety when they visited Lebanon in those days. I said they were Vikings who had gone to see a belly dance. He chuckled for a moment. ‘You must be missing those voluptuous belly dancers in your country. But then … you have safaris ...’

Outside the cinema sprinklers cooled the lawn. An Olympic hopeful sprinted across Martyr’s Square like Philippides of Marathon avoiding beautifully-dressed ladies of the night.

I fell in love with Naples the birthplace of the world’s greatest tenor Enrico Caruso and the ballad writer Eduardo di Capua who composed the most famous Neapolitan folk song of all time — O Sole Mio.

The people were exceptionally warm and friendly and also very excitable. Guides were a dime a dozen and clung like leeches to American tourists who had an irritating habit of always requiring precise information. Singers and artists were everywhere, on street corners, in restaurants even near cathedrals.

Outside the pizzeria where I had a meal there was a huge poster of the famous movie star Sophia Loren whose picture was drawing crowds in the cinemas. There were so many day trips to choose from, Herculaneum, Pompeii, Capua and Capri.

Genoa, the birthplace of Christopher Columbus, was our captain’s favourite port. He insisted on personally showing me the sights. I discovered he had some pretty macabre tastes like the Stagliano Cemetery.

Admittedly, the memorial park had some incredible sculptures in chilly white and exquisite buildings and was even quieter and more peaceful than the Atlantic Hotel in Hamburg. But I couldn’t wait to get out of the place. The next site was equally morbid — a small private museum which featured the pick of mediaeval tortures.

After that it was Antwerp and the channel crossing.

This was my first long voyage without my parents and I savoured every minute of it. If I ever got the chance I’d do it again. But wouldn’t it be nice if the ship also docked at Marseilles?

Published in Dawn, Sunday Magazine, January 24th, 2016