Open Writing

From the moment that our troopship tied up alongside the quay in Haifa I was entranced by the Middle East. There was a strange atmosphere, almost mysticism, which gripped me with a fascination that I could not explain. It was all so different. I was thrilled to hear Arabic, to see the Arabs. I was enthralled to experience this strange new way of life, the hot sun, clear blue sky and the balmy air.

With wonder I heard the soft pad of camels' feet and the jingling bells of their harness. I was intrigued to see the overladen donkey trotting along under its massive load, the Arab womenfolk balancing large bundles of spraywood on their heads and walking so gracefully, with swinging hips. Even the Arab sitting alongside his barrow in the market, selling a load of carrots, the same and yet so different from his counterpart in a London market.

I stared at the orthodox Jew with his large black hat, his hair falling to his shoulders in long ringlets and his clothing with tassels hanging down. I heard their Hebrew greeting of 'Shalom a-lei-chem', (Peace be to you), but usually the shortened form was used, 'Shalom'. It was heard everywhere, everyday and all the time when greeting others.

I was stepping into a different world, an old world and yet contrasted by the gleaming white buildings of modem Haifa in Hertzel Street and the Kingsway.

After the first day in our tented transit camp, the Adjutant sent for me. The Adjutant is the disciplinarian of the young officers and I wondered which of my misdemeanours had been discovered.

"Johnny," he said, "You are to take a party of Guardsmen from the First Guards Brigade and go to Cairo to pick up the first consignment of the Brigade's vehicles. The Transport Officer will give you all the details."

Cairo, oh boy, Cairo!

So much for my guilty conscience. It was all arranged, with thirty-eight vehicles to bring back. We took the dusty train through the orange groves of Palestine then, crossing the Sinai Desert at night, stopped for breakfast at El Kantara on the Suez canal. Being forewarned, I arranged for sentries to stand by the doors at each end of the two long carriages we occupied, to shut all the windows and allow nobody in. Several sinister characters came near then disappeared.

All we needed was our kit to be stolen and a Court of Inquiry. I could imagine the question, "And who was the officer in charge?"

The Guardsmen went into the canteen and I followed. Suddenly, I felt a long way from home, for on the wall were the station signs of the London Underground and the familiar words, 'Oval — Kennington — Waterloo — Charing Cross — Leicester Square —'. Yes, a long way from home indeed.

We entrained again for Cairo, almost fighting our way through hordes of Egyptian hawkers. They were dressed in long white cotton robes down to their ankles, or galabeeyas, as they were called, and wore a variety of headdresses, some a small, white skullcap, others the red fez or 'tarbouche', while others wore the Arab kaffiyeh, a square piece of cloth folded into the shape of a triangle, draped over the head and held in place by a circular, black cord, twisted into two halves and placed on top.

The cord is known as an agal, and sometimes their thickness varied in different countries according to their custom. Syrians would wear a thinner agal while a rich Saudi Arabian prince might wear a thick one with gold braid decorating it. In Egypt the tarbouche was very popular, some with a white material wound around it, denoting that the wearer was a 'Haf, or Holy man, who had made the pilgrimage to Mecca.

The hawkers tried to sell us a variety of wares, varying from beautifully designed and engraved leather goods to pornographic pictures, which they waved under our noses for fleeting glimpses, so tempting us to buy. They pushed and shoved and hustled each other to obtain a buyer before their rivals. From many years of bartering with British troops, they not only spoke English but were able to imitate the various dialects to perfection - a Geordie, Scot or Cockney, or a 'ba goom, choom', from up North. The banter exchanged between an Egyptian hawker and a cockney was a comedy act of the highest standard.

As our train pulled out slowly, they ran alongside, their prices becoming lower and lower as we gathered speed until they dropped out of the race, one by one answering in kind the abusive, farewell words and impossible suggestions of the troops.

The scenery changed in Egypt. After the barren, undulating, sandy desert of the Sinai, we now passed clusters of palm trees and flat, cultivated districts with their irrigation canals. We also crossed the Sweetwater Canal, a misnomer if ever there was one.

Now and then, we rushed through villages of small, squalid, square-shaped huts, the loose soil pockmarked with a thousand footprints, while potbellied children played near the village wells from which the womenfolk filled their pitchers, carrying them away balanced on their heads. Occasionally I saw a bison, all skin and bones, plodding everlastingly round and round in a circle to drive a water wheel, pumping water for the sun-parched crops. Everywhere, squalor, poverty and the stench of sewage.

Nearing Cairo the villages slowly gave way to towns. The crowded platforms of Zagazig Station were a pleasing blend of red and white colours in the blazing sun, the red of the tarbouche hats with their black tassels, like scores of inverted flower pots, intermingling with the white of the galabeeyas.

At Cairo Station I reported our arrival to the Transport Officer and then moved out to the trucks to take us to the army camp at Mena, near the Pyramids.

Squatting near the main entrance of the station was an Arab woman dressed in black robes to her ankles. Across the bottom half of her face she wore a net veil from which brass trinkets dangled, a broad one crossing the bridge of her nose. Just above the veil tattoo marks could be seen on her cheeks, while her eyelids were heavily lined with a black kohl (a form of makeup used in Cleopatra's time). The dirty soles of her feet were satin smooth. Her hands, stained with henna dye, were shrivelled into scores of wrinkles, and yet she must have been young, for as she squatted there with breasts bared she fed a baby.

Nearby were two more children. One was urinating against a wall, the other sprawled on the ground, her filthy petticoat rucked up around her potbelly while flies crawled over her bottom and clustered around the eyes of both children. They each had a cheap blue bead attached to their clothing, a superstitious charm for protection from the 'evil eye'. We walked past, shocked and filled with pity at their abject poverty.

Then we saw the contrast, a contrast so prevalent throughout the Middle East. The rich and the poor, the fortunate and the miserable. A late-model Cadillac drew up alongside the pavement. From it alighted a lady, dressed with the elegance of the latest European fashion, redolent of a pleasing and expensive French perfume. Her hair was beautifully coiffured, while a diamond bracelet, flashing in the sun, dangled from her elegant wrist.

Two tall Sudanese servants, carrying her suitcases, followed her. Their dark cheeks were scarred with their ritual tribal markings. They were spotlessly clean. Their galabeeyas brilliantly white in the sun, were contrasted by their short, brightly coloured waistcoats embroidered with arabesque designs in gold braid.

The squatting fellaheen, Arab woman, holding her feeding baby with one arm, held out her shrivelled hand and begged for alms.The lady walked past without a glance. In her defence, no doubt she had witnessed such a scene every single day of her life, had become inured to it and, probably, did not even notice the poverty-stricken mother.

It left a sad impression on me and filled me with feelings of pity. It was only afterwards that I realised, to my shame, that I had passed the poor woman and that I, also, had given her nothing.

The army trucks carried us away from Cairo Station, itself of unusual arabesque design. Threading our way through the busy streets we headed out onto a long, straight road, bounded by luxurious, tree-shaded villas and mansions, to the army camp at Mena.

It was, to me, blazing hot in Cairo. The heat reflected from the ground and hit my face like a furnace. The very heat seemed to burn my nostrils and chest as I inhaled, and was suffocating. The hot, scorching sun soon burnt my unaccustomed skin to a raw red, leaving a 'watermark' on my arms at the point to which my sleeves had been rolled. The bitumen surface of the road melted to a sticky mass and stuck to my shoes as i walked.

At the camp we discovered that the vehicles were not ready for us. What a surprise. This meant that we had to pass the time until the next day. It was here that the 'old boy network', as it was called, came into play. The Transport Officer at the camp was an Old Tonbridgian; they pop up everywhere. It only cost me a few beers with him in the Officers' Mess and he soon had trucks organised to take our boys to see the Pyramids, and in the evening, to go into Cairo for a look. I, and the others, grabbed the opportunity.