Shalom and Sheiks: 68 - A Series Of Presidents
John Powell tells of the night he entertained three Syrian customs officers.
To read earlier chapters of John's autobiography please click on http://www.openwriting.com/archives/shalom_and_sheiks/
As the Gang approached Palmyra with its Customs check point, old Stem became worried and, as he put it, "Jahnny, we ain't got no single goddam document and not even a goddam manifest for our equipment to show th' Customs. D'yer think you c'n fix it?"
"I'll have a goddam try, Stem, and let you know."
A telephone call to Tripoli drew a blank: then to Farouk in Horns. With the very short notice and the Gang already on the outskirts of Palmyra, I received promises of immediate action and was asked to stall off, somehow, the Customs Officers until the IPC Office in Damascus obtained a result.
'Somehow', they said. There was only one way to do it. The night before the Gang moved through the town, I would throw a party for the three Customs Officers, who were affable and with whom I had a good relationship.
Most Moslems do not drink; neither should they smoke, although many do. The 'town'
Moslems were not so strict as regards alcohol and the Customs Officers, happily, were no exception. On the night, I filled them with food and more food and also araq and more araq. Araq is a colourless liquid until water is added, then it turns white. It is very potent. For myself, I filled an empty araq bottle with water, which then looked like neat araq, and with which I refilled my glass during the long night of the party, so remaining, alas, completely sober throughout. Not so the Customs Officers, who finished helplessly and hopelessly intoxicated.
The following day was also memorable, coaxing them to start again. When they eventually sobered up, the Gang had progressed about two miles beyond Palmyra. Customs papers for all our equipment were never demanded.
Passing through the Palmyra area, I realised that the party for the Customs Officers was insufficient; I should have included the whole town. At night there was wide spread pillaging, when battalions of donkeys were led to the line and loaded with the wooden sleepers upon which the pipeline was laid before ditching. So extensive was the stealing that the watchmen on the line were unable to prevent it (even if they had been so inclined). Fresh supplies of sleepers were rushed up from Horns, which saw us through the crisis. It was, however, a greater danger at one stage than the absence of Customs papers; but the construction was not held up and we moved camp to T4 station.
Politically, Syria was becoming unstable. During our transit period in the country, there were seven coup d'etats, four of them of short duration, while the other three lasted a little longer, and all carried out by ambitious Army Colonels. Diplomatically, we placed a picture of the new President on the tent pole of our office. Tactfully, we replaced it with the photograph of the newest new President, Colonel Husni Zaim. Civilian authority practically disappeared and officious, disorganised Army rule took over. In the desert, I found myself more and more in conflict with arrogant junior officers, filled with the power of their sudden importance and wanting to interfere in everything to do with the Gang. Before long, I saw Mohammed remove the picture of Colonel Zaim.
"Hullo; what are you doing?" I asked.
"Haven't you heard? Zaim has received a well-aimed bullet, right between the eyes." Up went the photograph of the newest, newest, new President.
"We'll run out of photographs soon, Mohammed."
"Oh no; not until we run out of Army Colonels," he replied.
As the change took place, I noticed that the Security Police, stationed at every IPC location and in every village and town, were exchanged for a new breed who, like the young Army officers, were filled with their new powers and authority and determined to exercise them at every opportunity. The Security Police came to my office and demanded that, at once, I handed over to them the passports of every foreigner in the Gang, foreign Arabs included. This was beyond me: I contacted Farouk Shaabani in Horns. From there, it became a top-level exercise in Damascus — far out of my league. My liaison with the Syrian officials became more difficult; they were now anti-British, anti-American, and anti-foreigner. I looked forward to the Lebanon.
