MAC GOES TO CAIRO
The camp lay listless in the glaring heat of high noon. Long rows of
tents gleamed dazzlingly in the sun. Saddlery, horse-rugs, nose-bags
and gear were untidily scattered about. Except for the sleepy figure
of the horse-picket, attempting vainly to keep his lanky person within
the shadow of the feed-trough, there was no one in sight. The horses
needed little attention. With heads low and legs crooked, they dozed
in every attitude of siesta. Within the open tents lay the human
element, more or less replete after the seldom varying meal of sandy
stew and bread. Most of the men slept, stretched full length upon rush
matting on the shady sides of the tents. Some wore trousers, some
shirts and some neither.
Stretched full length upon his back, his head supported upon his
neighbour's chest, and his eyes idly following the ceaseless procession
of flies round the tent pole, Mac smoked and pondered deeply: was it
worth the fag to go to Cairo? Knowing full well that his last three
weeks' shirts and socks awaited washing, he decidedly dutifully to
remain at home, though possibly he might take the air, and probably the
beer, of Heliopolis in the evening. However, his good intentions were
ruthlessly upset, for at that moment the interior of his desert
domicile was swiftly converted into a swirling tornado of dust and
dirt. Blankets, towels and hay departed upwards, and all was turmoil.
In five seconds the air was calm again, but not so the eight
inhabitants of the canvas home.
Emerging from repose and a fog of grimy dust, they condemned Egypt and
things Egyptian in no uncertain tones. They had washed and eaten, and
had settled down comfortably for the afternoon, and why had this
confounded blanky cyclone selected their blanky tent to blanky well
empty itself upon! Often during the midday heat, "weary Willies,"
swirling spiral columns of sand 1,000 feet high, wandered in slow
procession along the edge of the desert from the north-east, usually
missing the camp, but sometimes crossing it, leaving a narrow trail of
chaos and ill temper. Mac met the situation with admirable dignity and
philosophy. This disturbance decided the Cairo question--he would go.
Still muttering wrathfully, the tent's complement sought their
individual towels and gravitated independently and sorrowfully towards
the shower-baths.
Three-quarters of an hour later found Mac, suitably adorned, sitting on
a bench at Helmeih Station having his boots and bandolier polished by
four jabbering, disreputable "Gyppie" youngsters, who swore glibly the
while the most lurid English oaths. Incidentally, they often
terminated an exceptionally fluent flow with "Eh, Mistah Mickkenzie?"
the usual mode of native address to New Zealanders after the High
Commissioner's visit, which sometimes ruffled Mac's dignity, but more
often amused him. His toilet was cut short by the arrival of the
train, so, seizing bandolier and spurs and dropping a few coins, he
jumped into a second-class compartment with but one boot clean of
desert sand. Rattling through Palais de Koubbeh and Demerdache, he
considered what he might do with himself now he had quitted camp.
Money was not so plentiful as in those palmy days when they had set
foot in this Orient land with two months' pay behind them. "Special
prices," too, were quoted for these men from the south. However, it
was a lot of trouble to think on such an afternoon; he would decide it
later. At any rate a shave was felt to be the most overpowering
necessity, though, really, the desert did make one thirsty! A shave
would be the second item.
In a small inferior café near the Boulak Station, he discovered Jock,
an artilleryman he knew, and together they satisfied their thirst;
neither had formed any plan for the afternoon, so both welcomed the
idea of spending it in company. They adjourned to the barber's.
Shaving in Sahara sand appealed not to Mac's heart, and, failing visits
to Cairo, mornings found him in an evil mood with a painful task before
him.
Shaving over, and Mac's other boot cleaned, a little sight-seeing was
suggested as a modest and inexpensive way of passing the afternoon.
The Pyramids were stale, besides being a dickens of a distance off.
The gunner voted for the Citadel, and Mac didn't mind, though he had
been there once already. They made their way towards a gharry stand,
and, spurning clamouring drivers from their path, comfortably seated
themselves in the one which appeared to sport the best pair of Arab
horses. Their feet supported upon the opposite seat, blue wisps of the
best Egyptian tobacco smoke trailing over the hood behind, they set
off. Scanning the Oriental life surging round them, criticizing Arab
methods of dressing sheep, amused by the scribes and
money-changers--dirty though prosperous-looking sharpers--and so on and
so forth, they passed slowly down the long Sharia-Mahommed Ali, between
the frowning walls of two great Mosques, where the cannon balls of
Napoleon are still fast in the stone, and then up the sharp incline
into the Citadel itself.
Leaving the Arab driver in a paroxysm of tears because he had received
only one-third more than his lawful fare, Jock and Mac passed by the
sentries, through the cavernous mouth of the main gate into the inner
precincts of the Citadel. How powerful a fortress in days gone by it
must have been, they thought, but how short lived and unavailing it
would prove before modern artillery. They came to a halt before the
great Mosque of Mahommed Ali, and the fine, tapering minarets met with
their deepest approval. At the entrance they assumed the apologetic
sandals and were taken in hand by an obtrusive dragoman, who, besides
impressing them with his own importance, related with small
appreciation of truth fabulous facts concerning the edifice. They duly
noted his salient pronouncements, rewarded him with a few piastres and
"imshi yallah'ed" in duet when he demanded more. Then, in the late
afternoon sunlight, they stood on the edge of the cliff without. There
they talked of many things while looking out over that weird,
mysterious city, over its forests of graceful minarets, towards the
green delta beyond; across the Nile to the west where the Pyramids of
Gizeh stood silhouetted against the setting sun, and down into the
gloom in the valley to the east, where, silent and deserted, lay the
City of the Dead.
Stirred into activity once more by feelings of emptiness and thoughts
of their weekly square meal, they turned their backs upon the glory of
the Egyptian evening and wandered down to the depths again. They
jostled their way through the throng, human and animal, which made
progress difficult and the atmosphere strong. Spotting a couple of
donkeys in the charge of one Arab donkey boy, they schemed with each
other with a view to his undoing.
"Very gude, Noo Zealand," said the dusky one when approached. "Gib it
twenty piastres for stashion."
"All right, ole sport. You'll get it at t'other end, and make your
blanky bone-bags go. Savvy?"
They proceeded fairly satisfactorily at first, Ahmed only having to be
occasionally reprimanded for not producing sufficient speed on the part
of his donks. Then, while the Arab was in front of Mac, vainly
endeavouring to persuade Jock's mount to proceed less swiftly, Mac
quietly took a turning to the left. The Arab went twenty-five yards
farther before he missed him. In violent excitement he tore after him
and besought him to stop.
"All right, you black diamond," said Mac cheerfully, and remained
standing in the street.
The Arab, his fears at rest, chased the other soldier, but as soon as
the native had disappeared round the corner, Mac moved on again. The
same thing happened in the case of the gunner, who halted immediately
the Arab arrived. The latter wanted to lead the donkey in the
direction of the trooper, but the gunner was obstinate and insisted
that his was the correct way. In a frame of mind too horrible to
contemplate, the Arab disappeared once more in pursuit of the trooper,
only to find he had entirely evaporated. In the throes of the greatest
dilemma of his life he returned, to learn that the worst had come to
pass and the gunner and his donkey also were gone from his sight.
"Allah! Oh, Allah!" he wailed, and, burying his head in his long blue
skirts, he dissolved into tears.
By devious ways Mac and Jock journeyed onwards, until, happy and
laughing at having for once done a nigger in the eye, they rejoined at
the Obelisk Restaurant, where they turned their borrowed steeds adrift.
Coming weekly as it did, dinner in Cairo was an affair of some length,
and, between shandies and cigarettes, it was already late when it was
_mafeesh_. They strolled along the streets and were about to drop into
the Café Égyptien, when they espied a fellow-countryman struggling with
a donkey. They went to his assistance, to discover that the donk-man
was, quite unnecessarily, attempting to stop a bottle of beer being
poured down the donk's throat. This promised sport, so Jock quickly
procured four more bottles of cheap beer and they joined the third
soldier in his estimable effort. Abdul had secured an assistant
against this vile outrage to his animal, but he was temporarily put out
of action by having the reins made fast round his lower extremities.
The donk rapidly absorbed three bottles, while the distracted "Gyppies"
tugged and wailed, "No gude! No gude! Finish Noo Zealand!" to which
the only reply was "Imshi Yallah, you black devils." At this stage the
little beast, an animal of rather miserable dimensions, with a large,
rotund centrepiece, escaped and wobbled ridiculously down the street.
He was recaptured, drenched with two more bottles, and let loose to
wander wherever his tottery legs would carry him. The donk swayed and
stumbled, his ears cocked at all angles, and his expression happy and
foolish. The gathered soldiers laughed till their sides were sore, and
when tired of this fun they let the Arabs take away, as best they
could, their ill-used, though happy, ass.
The hour had grown late. To the station the trooper and the gunner
wended their way. A short sleep in the train, a tired walk campwards
in the clear coolness of the Egyptian night, and to bed on the open
sand beneath a starry vault. "Lights out" sounded clearly in their
camp, and echoed more beautifully and faintly from other camps along
the desert's edge.