ABDULLAH the chowkidar guards the families’ gate from his little sentry box, leaving one section open for pedestrians and opening the other only for the gharri. Everyone likes Abdullah, who spent many years in India so we converse in a mixture of Arabic, Hindi and English. Dave and I greet him as we leave his gate onto the Sheikothman Road on our way to the pool, with Graham and Robert a short distance behind.
Along comes a camel cart, its driver asleep on top of his load. Dad says the Arabs have a special chewing gum called qat that makes them sleepy so the carters pull their dishdash over their heads and leave the camel to plod the 18 miles from Crater to Sheikothman or vice versa. It has been known for carts to be set onto reciprocal heading, so the driver awakes at his starting point. We choose the variation known as camel cart tennis, in which the cart is sent to and fro between the participants.
Dodgy things, camels, they will bite, kick or spit from both ends, so we’re careful as we walk alongside, bid it salaam, and gently pull on the rein. This one is quite amenable and is soon padding back towards Crater, and when it reaches Graham he turns it around again. Unfortunately this beast has a defective autopilot, and as we wait to turn it back it swings to the port, then starboard, then hard port. We watch in horror as the camel plods wearily through the pedestrian gate.
One wheel of the cart brings down the closed section of gate, the other topples Abdullah’s box which acts as a chock and brings it to a halt. A furious driver slides down from its side and begins to shout in Arabic, an equally angry Abdullah emerges from his wrecked box. We flee to the swimming pool and forget all about it.
On our return the good fairy had repaired both gate and sentry box, or so we thought. The angry shouting had awakened half the Patch, including our parents, who had to leave their afternoon naps and carry tools and timber half a mile from the hangars to repair the damage during the hottest part of the day. This is explained to us in a brief but very painful interview.
Another week of detention imposed for the camel cart affair, and I’m woken by a terrible racket from below. It’s very late, about 9.30 pm, and I peep down from the top of the stairs to see David’s parents with Mum and Dad. The air is thick with cigarette smoke, and they have a bottle of special Grown-up Cola that I’m not allowed, not that I’d want it anyway. I tried a sip of Dad’s once when he was at the bathroom and it’s foul, it’s nearly as bad as milk.
Mum is all giggly, the way she is at Christmas, and the two fathers are roaring with laughter over a big green folder which they pass to David’s mum, who reads it, turns bright red and collapses onto the sofa making a gasping noise. At once I recognise the symptoms. I’m about to go down and tell Mrs. Brindley I’m very sorry she has caught VD and I hope she gets better soon when, just in time, I remember the Official Secrets Act which declares VD as a State secret, or so we were told. I tiptoe back to bed and go out like a light.
I wake to the 0700 bugle calls from the Aden Protectorate Levies lines half a mile away. My parents are still sound asleep and I consider flinging their doors open shouting ‘Wakey wakey rise and shine’ the way Dad does with mine, but some sixth sense warns that this might not be the wisest course today. From the verandah I see Graham mooching towards our house, carrying his pet land crab Abdul in a shoebox as usual. We take Abdul everywhere except into the swimming pool because being a land crab he doesn't like water. Graham says his parents are still asleep too so we look around for something to eat. On the table beside the overflowing ashtray is the green folder they had last night. Inside we find a single typed sheet:
Station Routine Orders, RAF Khormaksar. Addendum ref. 234/52 It has been brought to the notice of the Station Commander that personnel have been interfering with camels on the Sheikothman Road. This practice will cease forthwith. Signed: Officer Commanding.
“What’s funny about that? Last week they give us a whacking for turning the camel, now they laugh about it”, says Graham. We commiserate on the problems of having grown-ups until Mum comes downstairs and we assure her that we are not hungry, we don’t mind having no breakfast. She looks guilty and says Graham can stay for breakfast, after which he can ask his parents if he can go to the Steamer Point lido, and here’s a shilling for the gharri. We can’t believe our luck.
As we pass Abdullah he says naughty boys, naughty boys, but his eyes are smiling. I lean from the gharri, put my hands together in Indian greeting and say Salaam, Abdullah sahib. Salaam, chota sahib, he replies, points at his gate and breaks into a roar of laughter. We wave to each other until the gharri goes out of sight. We’re friends again, the sun shines and all’s well in our happy little world.