by Evelyn Waugh
We went into the two or three tedj houses. At this stage of the morning they were fairly empty, some had no customers at all, in others a few dissipated men, who had slept the night there, squatted holding their heads, quarrelling with the women about the reckoning; at only one did we find any gaiety, where a party just arrived from the country were starting to get drunk; each sat beside a decanter of cloudy tedj; one of them was playing a kind of banjo. The women were, without exception, grossly ugly. Mr Bergebedgian drew back a sleeve and exhibited a sore on the shoulder of one of them. ‘A dirty lot,’ he said, giving her an affectionate pat and a half-piastre bit.
We went through the bazaar, Mr Bergebedgian disparaging all the goods in the friendliest way possible, and I bought some silver bangles which he obtained for me at a negligible fraction of their original price. We went into several private houses, where Mr Bergebedgian examined and exhibited everything, pulling clothes out of the chests, bringing down bags of spice from the shelves, opening the oven and tasting the food, pinching the girls, and giving half-piastre pieces to the children. We went into a workshop where three or four girls of dazzling beauty were at work making tables and trays of fine, brilliantly-patterned basketwork. Everywhere he went he seemed to be welcome; everywhere he not only adapted, but completely transformed, his manners to the environment. When I came to consider the question I was surprised to realize that the two most accomplished men I met during this six months I was abroad, the chauffeur who took us to Debra Lebanos and Mr Bergebedgian, should both have been Armenians. A race of rare competence and the most delicate sensibility. They seem to me the only genuine ‘men of the world’. I suppose everyone at times likes to picture himself as such a person. Sometimes, when I find that elusive ideal looming too attractively, when I envy among my friends this one’s adaptability to diverse company, this one’s cosmopolitan experience, this one’s impenetrable armour against sentimentality and humbug, that one’s freedom from conventional prejudices, this one’s astute ordering of his finances and nicely calculated hospitality, and realize that, whatever happens to me and however I deplore it, I shall never in actual fact become a ‘man of the world’ of the kind I read about in novels – then I comfort myself a little by thinking that, perhaps, if I were an Armenian I should find things easier.
Chapter Three
Globe-Trotting in 1930-31
(From Remote People)
Pure mischance had brought me to Aden, and I expected to dislike it, contrasting it angrily with the glamour and rich beauty I expected to find at Zanzibar. How wrong I was.
Zanzibar and the Congo, names pregnant with romantic suggestion, gave me nothing; Aden was full of interest.
On first acquaintance, however, there was much about the Settlement to justify my forebodings. It is, as every passenger down the Red Sea knows, an extinct volcano joined to the mainland by a flat and almost invisible neck of sand; not a tree or flower or blade of grass grows on it, the only vegetation is a meagre crop of colourless scrub which has broken out in patches among the cinders; there is no earth and no water, except what is dragged there in a ceaseless succession of camel-carts through the tunnelled road; the sanitation everywhere – in the hotels, the club, the mess, the private bungalows – is still that of a temporary camp. Architecture, except for a series of water-tanks of unknown age, does not exist. A haphazard jumble of bungalows has been spilt over the hillside, like the litter of picnic-parties after Bank Holiday. The hotel is as expensive as Torr’s at Nairobi; the food has only two flavours – tomato ketchup and Worcestershire sauce; the bathroom consists of a cubicle in which a tin can is suspended on a rope; there is a nozzle at the bottom of the can encrusted with stalactites of green slime; the bather stands on the slippery cement floor and pulls a string releasing a jet of water over his head and back; for a heavy extra charge it is possible, with due notice, to have the water warmed; the hall-porter has marked criminal tendencies; the terrace is infested by money-changers. The only compensating luxury, a seedy, stuffed sea-animal, unmistakably male, which is kept in a chest and solemnly exhibited – on payment – as a mermaid. You would have to search a long time before finding many such hotels in the whole of England.
There are other superficial disadvantages about Aden, notably the division of the Settlement into two towns. So far I have been speaking of the district known as Steamer Point; about three miles away lies Crater Town, the centre of such commerce as has survived. This was the original nucleus of the Settlement. It is surrounded on three sides by cliffs, and on the fourth by what was once a harbour, now silted up and for a long time closed to all traffic. The original Residency stands there, now a guest-house for visiting Arab chiefs; there is also a large derelict barracks, partially demolished, and an Anglican church, built in Victorian Gothic, which was once the garrison chapel, and is still provided with its own chaplain, who reads services there Sunday after Sunday in absolute void. This man, earnest and infinitely kind, had lately arrived from Bombay; he rescued me from the hotel, and took me to stay with him for a few days in his large, ramshackle house on the Crater beach, known to taxi-drivers as ‘Padre sahib’s bungalow’. A few of the political officers still have quarters round the Crater, and there are a half-dozen or so British commercial agents and clerks; the rest of the population are mixed Asiatics inhabiting a compact series of streets between the water and the hills.
The town affords a remarkable variety of race and costume. Arabs are represented in every grade of civilization, from courteous old gentlemen in Government service who wear gold-rimmed spectacles, silk turbans, and light frock coats and carry shabby umbrellas with highly decorated handles, to clusters of somewhat bemused Bedouin straight from the desert; these are, in appearance, very different from the noble savages of romance; their clothes consist of a strip of blanket round the waist, held up by a sash from which protrudes the hilt of a large dagger; their hair is straight, black, and greasy, lying on the back of the head in a loose bun and bound round the forehead with a piece of rag; they are of small stature and meagre muscular development; their faces are hairless or covered with a slight down, their expressions degenerate and slightly dotty, an impression which is accentuated by their loping, irregular gait.
The British political officer introduced me to a delightful Arab who acted as my interpreter and conducted me round Crater Town. He took me to his club, a large upper storey, where at the busy time of the commercial day we found the principal Arab citizens reclining on divans and chewing khat; later he took me to an Arab café where the lower class congregate; here, too, was the same decent respect for leisure; the patrons reclined round the walls in a gentle stupor, chewing khat. ‘These simple people, too, have their little pleasures,’ my companion remarked.
Later I received an invitation to tea from the president and committee of the club. This time the bundles of khat had been removed, and plates of sweet biscuits and dates and tins of cigarettes had taken their place. My friend and interpreter was there, but the president spoke enough English to make conversation very difficult.
I was introduced to about a dozen Arabs. We sat down in two rows opposite each other. A servant brought in a tray of tea and bottled lemonade. We talked about the distressing conditions of local trade.
Everything would be all right and everyone would be happy, said the Arabs, if only the bank would give longer and larger overdrafts. I remarked that in England we are embarrassed in exactly that way too. They laughed politely. Europeans, they said, could always get all the money they wanted. Even Indians, a race renowned for dishonour and instability, could get larger advances than the Arabs; how was one to live unless one borrowed the money? They had heard it said I was writing a book. Would I, in my book, persuade the bank to lend them more money? I promised that I would try. (Will any official of the Bank of India who reads this book please let the Aden Arabs have more money?)
We talked about London. They told me that the Sultan of Lahej had been there and had met the King-Emperor. We talke
d about the King-Emperor and pretty Princess Elizabeth. I confess I am pretty bad at carrying on this kind of conversation. There were several long pauses. One of them was broken by the president suddenly saying, ‘We all take great sorrow at the loss of your R101.’
I agreed that it had been a terrible disaster, and remarked that I knew one of the victims fairly well.
‘We think it very sad,’ said the president, ‘that so many of your well-educated men should have been killed.’
That seemed to me a new aspect of the tragedy.
Conversation again languished, until one of the company, who had hitherto taken no part in the conversation, rose to his feet and, tucking up his shirt, exhibited the scars in his side caused by a recent operation for gall-stone. This man was local correspondent to a London newspaper. He had lately, he told me, sent the foreign-news editor a complete genealogy of the Imam of Sana, compiled by himself with great labour. Did I know whether it had yet been printed, and, if not, could I put in a word for him in Fleet Street when I returned?
One evening there was a fair in Crater. There were stalls selling sweets and sherbet under naphtha flares, and tables with simple gambling-games. One of these was the simplest gambling-game I ever saw. The banker dealt five cards face downwards and the players placed a stake of an anna on one or other of them. When each card had found a backer – two players were not allowed to bet on the same card – they were turned up. The winning card was then paid even money and the banker pocketed three annas a time. Groups of men danced in circles between the stalls.
One unifying influence among the diverse cultures of the Crater was the Aden troop of Boy Scouts. It is true that Arabs cannot be induced to serve in the same patrol with Jews, but it is a remarkable enough spectacle to see the two races sitting amicably on opposite sides of a camp-fire, singing their songs in turn and occasionally joining each other in chorus. The scoutmaster, an English commercial agent, invited me to attend one of these meetings.
The quarters were a disused sergeants’ mess and the former barrack square. My friend was chiefly responsible for the Arab patrol, the Jews having an independent organization. As I approached, rather late, I saw the latter drilling in their own quarter of the parade ground – a squad of lengthy, sallow boys in very smart uniforms furnished with every possible accessory by the benefaction of a still-wealthy local merchant. The Arabs – with the exception of one resplendent little Persian, for ‘Arab’ in this connexion was held to include all Gentiles, Somali, Arab, and Mohammedan Indians – were less luxuriously equipped. There were also far fewer of them. This was explained by the fact that two of the second-class scouts were just at that time celebrating marriages.
Tests were in progress for the tenderfoot and other badges. The acquiring of various badges is a matter of primary concern in the Aden troop. Some of the children had their arms well covered with decorations. ‘We generally let them pass after the third or fourth attempt,’ the scoutmaster explained. ‘It discourages them to fail too often.’
Two or three figures crouching against corners of masonry were engaged on lighting fires. This had to be done with two matches; they had been provided by their mothers with horrible messes of food in tin cans, which they intended to warm up and consume. I believe this qualified them for a cookery medal. ‘Of course, it isn’t like dealing with English boys,’ said the scoutmaster, ‘if one isn’t pretty sharp they put paraffin on the sticks.’
The scoutmaster kept the matchbox, which was very quickly depleted. Breathless little creatures kept running up. ‘Please, sahib, no burn. Please more matches.’ Then we would walk across, scatter the assembled sticks and tinder, and watch them built up again. It was not a long process. A match was then struck, plunged into the centre of the little pile, and instantly extinguished. The second match followed. ‘Please, sahib, no burn.’ Then the business began again. Occasionally crows of delight would arise and we were hastily summoned to see a real conflagration. Now and then a sheet of flame would go up very suddenly, accompanied by a column of black smoke. ‘Oil,’ said the scoutmaster, and that fire would be disqualified.
Later a Somali boy presented himself for examination in scout law. He knew it all by heart perfectly. ‘First scoot law a scoot’s honour iss to be trust second scoot law …’ et cetera, in one breath.
‘Very good, Abdul. Now tell me what does “thrifty” mean?’
‘Trifty min?’
‘Yes, what do you mean, when you say a scout is thrifty?’
‘I min a scoot hass no money.’
‘Well, that’s more or less right. What does “clean” mean?’
‘Clin min?’
‘You said just now a scout is clean in thought, word, and deed.’
‘Yis, scoot iss clin.’
‘Well, what do you mean by that?’
‘I min tought, worden deed.’
‘Yes, well, what do you mean by clean?’
Both parties in this dialogue seemed to be losing confidence in the other’s intelligence.
‘I min the tenth scoot law.’
A pause during which the boy stood first on one black leg, then on the other, gazing patiently into the sun.
‘All right, Abdul. That’ll do.’
‘Pass, sahib?’
‘Yes, yes.’
An enormous smile broke across his small face, and away he went capering across the parade ground, kicking up dust over the fire-makers and laughing with pleasure.
‘Of course, it isn’t quite like dealing with English boys,’ said the scoutmaster again.
Presently the two bridegrooms arrived, identically dressed in gala clothes, brilliantly striped silk skirts, sashes, and turbans, little coats and ornamental daggers. They were cousins, about fourteen years of age. They had been married a week ago. Tonight they were going to see their brides for the first time. They were highly excited by their clothes, and anxious to show them to their fellow scouts and scoutmaster.
Meanwhile the Jews had made a huge bonfire on the beach. Both patrols assembled round it and a short concert was held. They sang local songs in their own languages. I asked what they meant, but the scoutmaster was not sure. From what I know of most Arabic songs, I expect that they were wholly incompatible with the tenth scout law.
I think that perhaps it was the predominance of bachelors at Steamer Point that made the English community there so unusually agreeable. At Aden the centres of social intercourse were in the club and the messes, not at bungalow ‘sundowner’-parties. At Zanzibar the club was practically empty from eight o’clock onwards – everyone was at home with his wife; at Aden the bar and the card-room were full till midnight.
There was plenty of entertainment going on. During my brief visit – ten days only in Aden itself – there was a dance at the club, a ball at the Residency, and a very convivial party given by the Sappers. There was also a cinematograph performance.
This is a singular feature of Aden life which occurs every Thursday on the roof of the Seamen’s Institute. I went with the flight-commander, who had been in charge of the Air Mission at Addis. We dined first at the club with two of his officers. There were parties at other tables, also bound for the cinema; there were also dinner-parties at many of the bungalows. People entertain for the cinema on Thursday nights as they do for dances in London. It is not a hundred yards from the club to the Seamen’s Institute, but we drove there in two cars. Other parties were arriving; a few Somalis loitered round the entrance, watching the procession; the Residency car, flag flying on the bonnet, was already there. Upstairs the roof was covered with deep wicker chairs. The front row was reserved for the Resident’s party. The other seats were already two-thirds full. Everyone, of course, was in evening dress. It was a warm night, brilliant with stars.
The first film was a Pathé Gazette, showing the King leaving London for Bognor Regis twenty months previously, and an undated Grand National, presumably of about the same antiquity. A fine old slapstick comedy followed. I turned to remark to my host
how much superior the early comedies were to those of the present day, but discovered, to my surprise, that he was fast asleep. I turned to my neighbour on the other side; his head had fallen back, his eyes were shut, his mouth wide open. His cigarette was gradually burning towards his fingers. I took it from him and put it out. The movement disturbed him. He shut his mouth, and without opening his eyes, said, ‘Jolly good, isn’t it?’ Then his mouth fell open again. I looked about me and saw in the half-light reflected from the screen that the entire audience were asleep. An abysmal British drama followed, called The Woman Who Did. It was about a feminist and an illegitimate child and a rich grandfather. The roof remained wrapped in sleep. It is one of the odd characteristics of the Aden climate that it is practically impossible to remain both immobile and conscious.
Later, ‘God Save the King’ was played on the piano. Everyone sprang alertly to attention and, completely vivacious once more, adjourned to the club for beer, oysters, and bridge.
Everyone was hospitable, and between meals I made a serious attempt to grasp some of the intricacies of Arabian politics; an attempt which took the form of my spreading a table with maps, reports and notebooks, and then falling into a gentle and prolonged stupor. I spent only one really strenuous afternoon. That was in taking ‘a little walk over the rocks’, with Mr Leblanc and his ‘young men’.
Nothing in my earlier acquaintance with Mr Leblanc had given me any reason to suspect what I was letting myself in for when I accepted his invitation to join him in his little walks over the rocks. He was a general merchant, commercial agent, and ship-owner of importance, the only European magnate in the Settlement; they said of him that he thrived on risk and had made and lost more than one considerable fortune in his time. I met him dining at the Residency, on my first evening in Aden. He talked of Abyssinia, where he had heavy business undertakings, with keen sarcasm; he expressed his contempt for the poetry of Rimbaud; he told me a great deal of very recent gossip about people in Europe; after dinner he played some very new gramophone records he had brought with him. To me, rubbed raw by those deadly four days at Dirre-Dowa and Djibouti, it was all particularly emollient and healing.