Shalom and Sheiks: 58 – Extracting The Basics
..."Where do you live at the moment?"
He answers as quickly as a Rhodes Scholar. “The Spa'a tribe, oh Sir."
A good answer to another stupid question. Nomads, they could be anywhere. But still, these are the questions on the form to be completed for the Auditor to see. No good asking a Bedou where he lives. I try another way. "Where is your tent now?"...
Interviewing job applicants for pipe-laying work in the Syrian desert had its problems, as John Powell reveals.
To read earlier chapters of John’s absorbing life story please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/shalom_and_sheiks/
As the Bedou were only casual workers, no detailed Personnel records were kept. Instead the basic information was prepared for the Paymaster. Some of the Bedou were highly intelligent, while others were pitifully dense. Questioning a slow-witted candidate in a scorching heat and trying to speak in his broad Bedouin dialect, could be exhausting.
One such interview went as follows:
Coming into the Personnel tent he opens the conversation in traditional fashion. "Peace be on you."
"And on you be peace. Welcome, you have honoured us."
Salutations completed, I commence: "What is your name?"
"Uh?"
"What is your name?"
"Ha! By Allah the Almighty, my father's name was Souad."
"Thank you, but what is your name?"
"Uh?"
"What is your name?"
A smile of understanding flickers across his face, "Ha! My name, oh Sir, my name...my name.." He looks at me in bewilderment; he has forgotten the question. I prompt him.
"Yes, your name is what? Tell me."
"My name, oh Sir, is Mohammed."
We have arrived. From the usual Arabic custom his father's name would follow his, so his full name is Mohammed Souad.
"So, your name is Mohammed Souad?"
He looks at me with amazement, wondering how I knew his full name, and he smiles, then laughs with joy at the sheer mental brilliance of this Englishman who knows his full name.
"From which tribe are you?"
"Sheik Sou'an, oh Sir."
"Good. Sheik Sou'an, may Allah give him strength and long life. You are from the Spa'a tribe then?"
"Uh?"
"Are you from the Spa'a tribe?"
"Yes, oh Sir, thanks be to Allah the almighty, Allah the generous."
The heat gets to me. I wipe my neck with my handkerchief to stop the trickle of sweat building into a raging torrent. 'Why on earth,' I ask myself, 'did I waste time asking him if he was from the Spa'a tribe? Of course he is from the Spa'a tribe. They are all from the Spa'a tribe.'
I continue, "Where do you live at the moment?"
He answers as quickly as a Rhodes Scholar. “The Spa'a tribe, oh Sir."
A good answer to another stupid question. Nomads, they could be anywhere. But still, these are the questions on the form to be completed for the Auditor to see. No good asking a Bedou where he lives. I try another way. "Where is your tent now?"
He thinks for a moment. "In the name of Allah, your Excellency, you know Wadi Marabba?"
'Yes."
"You know the other side of Wadi Marabba, where Abu Ali's best camel slipped and broke its leg there?"
"Yes, yes." I play along with him; he is becoming really verbose now.
"Well, by Allah, it is not that side of Wadi Marabba."
“Truly? Where is it then?"
"It is this side of Wadi Marabba, oh Sir. Do you know the tent of Abu Walid?"
"Yes." I give up.
"Ha! My tent is next to his."
"How old are you?"
"I do not know, your Excellency, whatever you wish." He grins happily at pleasing me with his answer.
"You do not know?"
"Uh?n
“You do not know your age?" Then rephrasing the question I add, "Do you know your age then? You do not. Correct?"
"As you wish, oh Sir, put 20 years."
I cannot face asking him about his next-of-kin by this time. I look at his toothless gums, wrinkled skin and his white hair and partly by guesswork, I fill out the form:
NAME: Mohammed Souad
TRIBE: Spa’a
LOCATION: Wadi Marabba
AGE: About 65.
NEXT-OF-KIN: Father, Souad Mohammed (If alive). Best refer to Sheik Sou'an.
