We did so, and in exchange for a few piastres received a fairly heavy consignment of bilious-looking lollies and Turkish Delight. These we straightway proceeded to hold up to the expectant view of the smaller kiddies. The thing worked like a charm: kids are the same all the world over. In a few minutes the mothers stole shyly forward and held up their babies to receive their rightful share of the unexpected windfall. Soon the whole crowd, mothers, kids, and flappers, were laughing and jostling round us to the admiration and envy of our retinue. They could not resist the call of those sticky confections. They had been seduced by a concoction of sugar and gum arabic. We bought the old Ishmaelite right out and distributed backsheesh with a lavish hand, then proceeded to "do" the township at the head of a now much augmented following. I guess they sized us up as a new brand in the public philanthropic line. It wasn't every day that millionaires who sported five-piastre pieces came to town. I fancy their coinage was a copper one.
Maarg we found to be a typical fellaheen village, inhabited by the usual mob of picturesque-looking and untidy natives, half Egyptian and half Arabic; goats, donkeys, bastard sheep, and hens. It boasted a miniature mosque, a grocery and provision store, a broken-down potter's factory, a cemetery, but no sanitation department. The low, dirty-white houses were topped by the customary flat roofs on which the family washing (when there happened to be any) flaunted its shameless nakedness. The streets, carpeted with the freewill offerings of the citizens, began anywhere and finished nowhere—except when they led you unsuspectingly into the living-room of one of the aforesaid citizens. On the whole we found Maarg to be a really interesting place, and the inhabitants even more interesting. But they took some getting acquainted with, for at first every woman and child bolted to cover as soon as we loomed in sight, following at a safe distance when we had passed on, and stopping when we stopped. We smiled our sweetest: no effect. We purchased lollies from the provision merchant and started scrambles among our own immediate train: they approached.
Those scrambles were the limit. They began with the nippers. Then the flappers joined in. Next the mothers, some with babies in their arms, took a hand in the deal. Finally the men, their dignity upset by the thought of so much good tucker going into other stomachs than their own, joined in the general mix-up, and the show ended in a flurry of legs and wings for all the world like a cross between a ballet dance and a Rugby scrum.
We had a most interesting conversation with the Mayor, or Sheik, or whatever he was, of the community. He proved quite an affable old gentleman, able to speak a little English. He didn't seem quite able to size us up at first, and was naturally curious to know what had brought us to his township. We said we had come on a matrimonial project (we thought we might as well tell a good one when we were about it; they are all liars in those parts, anyway), whereat he pricked up his old ears, scenting backsheesh. In answer to certain parental queries we informed him that we possessed a wife each already out in New Zealand (which was a lie), my mate owning to five kiddies, and I to a couple—the latter bit of information striking him as rather ludicrous seeing that I had just told him that I had been married a little over a year; however, I made it right by explaining that my family consisted of twins.
If we had been objects of curiosity before we were tenfold so now. The market was well stocked, and had we wished we could have been fixed up with a tidy little harem each right away. It was a toughish job keeping our faces straight, while the goods were paraded before us and a full inventory of each laughing-eyed young lady's charms and accomplishments made out. And some of them were real pretty; quite as modest, too, in their own way, as most white girls. Not that they were niggers (except in name); the colour of a ripe peach would about fill the bill; and when you get that brand of complexion added to a smallish mouth and chin, teeth like pearls, a short straight nose, a low broad forehead thatched with glossy, raven-black hair (plenty of it, too), you begin to tumble to the fact that the fellaheen girls weren't all behind the door when faces were served out. As regards hands and feet they could give points to most Englishwomen, while their action was a treat to watch. I guess the Eastern habit of carrying loads on their heads accounts for their graceful carriage. They were a smallish breed; slimly built and averaging about five feet and a fraction, I should say.
I forget what the price ruled at, taken in a camel, donkey, and goat currency. The sheik's own favourite daughters, I know, had a top-market reserve placed on them. They were certainly the pick of the bunch. Like most native women they had a tender spot in their hearts for men of the sterner Western breed—and like all Eastern girls they admired height and weight. We filled the bill; modesty debars me from saying more. They would have shaken the dirt—er, dust—of Maarg from their shapely little feet and followed us to Gallipoli had we asked them.
We didn't. We tore ourselves away, saying that we would return to see them the following Sunday. We meant it, too—being both fond of prosecuting the study of native types of mankind. But, alas! the following Sunday found us on the sea, bound for the Dardanelles and Johnnie Turk. We presented our prospective helpmeets with sufficient Turkish Delight to ensure them dyspepsia for the ensuing seven days, backsheeshed their parents till they smiled sixteen to the dozen, and took the back trail, escorted all the way to the Siding by the united population of the settlement. I doubt if we should have saluted the General himself had we bumped up against him, we felt so good.
On the whole, we had a rather good time during our stay in Egypt. Our camp lay close to both Old and New Heliopolis. The new town was built as a kind of Eastern Monte Carlo, by a continental syndicate which, however, failed to obtain the necessary gaming licence. It is spotlessly clean, the streets are like glass, and the architecture mostly snowy-white and Corinthian-Roman in design. An enormous hotel, said to be one of the largest in the world, occupies the centre of a prettily planted square; there is a fine, showy Casino, and whole streets of beautifully designed buildings. It is, in fact, a model little town resting incongruously enough on the arid desert, a bit of Monaco transplanted to the land of the Pharaohs. A close inspection, however, reveals the fact that a large part of the solid-looking architecture is a sham, most of the ornamental work being moulded in stucco. In this connection the natives will tell you that when the heavy rains put in an appearance (they only visit these parts about once in every three years or so) Heliopolis begins to moult—in plain words the outer crust of lime washes away, and the town bears the appearance of a fleshless skeleton.
You can still see bits of Old Heliopolis—the Heliopolis of the Scriptures. In fact, the modern town is built partly on the site of the ancient city which the Virgin Mary passed through. Your guide will point out to you the Virgin's Well and what purports to be the tree she rested under. You can swallow the latter assertion with a large mouthful of salt; the plant looks altogether too flourishing and full of life to have so many years on its head. The original Virgin's Tree is, I believe, to be found close handy—an old dead stump that might be any age. In the Virgin's Chapel adjoining you will find a number of beautiful mural paintings depicting the Flight into Egypt.
A few minutes' walk will bring you to the foot of the oldest obelisk in the world, I believe: an obelisk compared with which Cleopatra's Needle is an infant in arms. Save for the marks of Napoleon's shot which it received during the Battle of the Mamelukes, its surface is practically unscratched. It is the dryness of the Egyptian climate, I reckon, that accounts for the staying powers of these old-timers. Most of them seem to have suffered more during Napoleon's short stay than they did during the flight of centuries. I guess his men were pretty rotten shots. I often wondered how they came to mess up the poor old Sphinx's nose, or what they were actually shooting at. It couldn't have been the old lady herself, for if they had they'd have missed her.