Suddenly—to my horror—I heard a hideous grinding sound and a shrill, raucous voice with a pronounced American accent began singing, “Waiting for the Robert E. Lee,” a tune which I always object to. It was a gramophone, very old and decrepit, the most prized possession of Sheikh Thomi. I tried to look as if I enjoyed the tune, which was played over and over again for about half an hour, and followed by some slightly less repulsive records of native music.
After listening to this musical interlude a servant brought in a bunch of pink and white sweetly scented China roses which were distributed among the guests, and then the meal began. A dozen boys served as waiters, carrying the dishes from an open-air fire round the corner where several cooks presided over the food. At first it was suggested that I should eat alone, in solitary state, but I protested, so Sheikh Thomi and three others ate with me, while the rest of the guests retired outside to eat later, probably with more ease in my absence. We sat cross-legged on the ground, a position that without considerable practice causes the most agonising “pins and needles.” The meal was eaten almost in silence, broken only by the noisy sounds of eating.
A round wooden table was placed in the centre, and each guest was provided with several flat round wheaten loaves, which served as plates, and some strips of thin native bread, which looks rather like pancake, only darker and more solid. The meal consisted mostly of mutton, cooked in various ways—boiled, fried and stewed—with different kinds of vegetables, salads, spices, curries and flavourings. One of the dishes, a very excellent one, was stewed doves, eaten with fresh grapes. The pudding was the least appetising dish on the menu, it was made of crumbled bread, mixed into a sticky mass with “semna” oil and sugar. There were about a dozen courses. Each one was brought in in a big dish of polished ebony and placed on the table. The guests ate from the central dish, using the thin bread to pick up the meat. One takes a piece of thin bread between finger and thumb, dips into the dish, sandwiching the meat in the bread. It sounds a messy proceeding, but after a little practice I found it quite simple. Servants brought round a brass ewer, and each guest washed his hands after every course; the Siwans also rinsed their mouths—noisily. Every now and then some one would fish out an extra succulent morsel and hand it to me, or if one man had secured a tasty bone he would tear off the meat and heap it on to my loaf. Towards the end of the meal a few loud hiccoughs are not considered amiss, and to loosen one’s belt, very obviously, is thought most complimentary. One needs it too!
The food was very good, excellently cooked, and so tender that there was no difficulty in separating the meat from the bones. When I thought, and felt, that we had finished, there followed an enormous dish heaped high with perfectly plain boiled rice. This is called “Shawish”—The Sergeant—because it clears away the other dishes! Afterwards an enormous copper tray was carried in by two boys loaded with every kind of fruit—plums, peaches, pears, grapes, apricots and figs. Last of all came tea, and bowls of palm wine for those who liked it. It is made from the sap of the date palm, and when freshly drawn it tastes like sweet ginger-beer, but a little goes a very long way.
Tea-drinking in Siwa is as solemn a ceremony as after-dinner port at home. The host either dispenses it himself, or as a compliment invites one of the guests to pour out. Towards the end of my time at Siwa I was thought to have acquired sufficient experience, and occasionally I poured out myself. The guest invariably pretends to refuse, protests that he is not worthy, but eventually accepts the honour. The pourer-out is called the “Sultan” of the party, and every “Sultan” tries to make the best tea in the town. People are very critical, and opinions vary as to who is the super Sultan in Siwa. As soon as the “Sultan” takes over the job he becomes, for the time, master of the house. He calls loudly for more sugar, boiling water, and scolds the servants as if they were his own. If he doesn’t like the quality of the tea, he says so and the host apologises. A servant brings a low table with a number of little glasses about 4 inches high, a locked chest containing three divisions for red and green tea, and sugar, and a bowl of hot water to rinse the cups. One is asked which kind of tea is preferred, red or green, and the safest and most popular reply is “A mixture of both.” The “Sultan” then very deliberately rinses the glasses from a kettle of boiling water which stands on a little brazier at his side, measures out the tea into the pot, adds a little water, pours it away, then carefully makes the tea, pours out a little, tastes it, and finally, if he approves of the flavour, hands one glassful to each guest. The tea is drunk with no milk; the first brew is rather bitter, with a very little sugar, the second is very sweet, and the third, and best, is flavoured with rose petals, orange blossom, or fresh mint. Each guest drinks one glass only of each brew, and what is over is poured out and sent to the servants, or into the harem. It should be sipped noisily, and satisfaction expressed in the sound of drinking. One drinks either three glasses, six, or nine. I have known twelve, but that is considered rather an excess in polite society. Personally I consider it one of the best drinks I know, but at first people dislike it.
The Siwans are greedy, when they get the chance, and on these occasions their appetites are enormous. They have the greatest admiration for anyone who eats copiously. A certain Government official, whose fondness for large meals was famous, came down to Siwa. He attended a luncheon party, which was given in his honour by some of the sheikhs. The meal was a matter of some dozen or fifteen courses. I myself, by using the greatest discretion, and only eating a few mouthfuls of each dish, managed to last out. But the guest of the day took, and ate, a liberal helping of each course. The Siwans themselves became a trifle languid towards the end of the meal, but he persevered. Even the plain boiled rice did not daunt him, or the sticky oily pudding. It earned him an everlasting admiration in Siwa, and his name is always mentioned at Siwan parties as a really fine fellow, “The Englishman who ate of everything.”
Meat is difficult to get in the oasis. When a bedouin convoy arrives the Arabs often slaughter and sell a camel. There are a few sheep and goats imported from the coast, but the price of meat makes it impossible for the poorer folk to buy it. I had with me a number of dogs. One of them, an attractive mongrel, produced a litter of pups. Several people asked me to give them one, and I did so. I was pleased to see how well their new owners looked after them; they appeared even fatter and fitter than when I had them. Then I went into Cairo on local leave. When I returned, about a month or so later, I inquired after the puppies. One of the men who had taken one told me, “They were fine, so fat and so large——” But “Where are they now?” I asked. He looked surprised, pointed to his stomach, which was a very obvious one, and explained that they had all been eaten last month on the “Eid el Kebir,” one of the Mohammedan festivals. He said that nobody could ever imagine that I had given them away for any other reason than for eating. There was nothing to be done, but I never gave away another puppy. I drowned the next litter, and it was considered extremely wasteful.
The Siwans eat cats too, and mice and rats. At one time there were many cats in Siwa and no rats. Now there are rats but no cats. Cats were easier to catch than rats, so they went first. One man, a merchant, complained that his house and shop was overrun with mice and rats. He had gone to great trouble and brought a cat from Egypt, but as soon as it was full grown it disappeared! Dogs are considered “unclean” by the Mohammedan religion, and they are never eaten in any other places in Egypt.
Dogs are useful at Siwa both as watch-dogs and companions. My dogs used to sleep on the high terrace of the house, and they always gave one warning of anybody coming over the half mile of sand from the town. Besides, dogs are the most human and affectionate of all animals, and one gets to feel the need of companionship at Siwa. It is a solitary life. One either likes it or hates it; there is no compromise, and most men hate it. Sometimes one does not see a single white man for several months, and then, when a car patrol arrives, they stay a few hours in the town and dash back on the same day. One needs a certain temperament to stand living at Siwa. In the summer the heat is so great that one does not go out much in the middle of the day, unless there is urgent necessity, consequently for many hours every day there is nothing to do. If one sleeps much in the daytime one is unable to sleep at night. A man at Siwa must have some form of hobby in which he can interest himself without needing the assistance of other people. Painting, writing, photography and reading all serve the purpose. I mention them as they formed my own spare-time occupations. But without something of this kind life becomes unbearable. It is an ideal place for painting and photography. The strangely varied scenery, the brilliant sunshine, the picturesque natives, and the wonderful colouring, especially the sunsets, provide a variety of subjects on every side. Siwan men quite enjoy being photographed, but the women strongly dislike it. Eventually by teaching my Sudanese servant to use a camera I managed to secure a few indifferent photos of women. When one “snaps” people they immediately demand a copy of the photo, imagining that the camera is also a simultaneous printer and developer.
According to the proverb “Two is company, three is none,” but I think most men who have experienced it would agree that in an isolated district three is generally company and two is purgatory. The odds are one in a thousand that “the other man” will be congenial, and if he is not life is insufferable. If there is a third man things feel better, but to live for months on end with one other man, who one does not really like, results in mutual detestation. This may sound morbid and unnatural, but one sees so many examples. I knew two quite ordinary normal men posted in a lonely district where they rarely saw another Englishman. For the first month they lived together quite happily, in the second month they quarrelled, in the third month they took to living in separate houses, and at the end of four months they were not on speaking terms! Then there are other men who cannot stand living alone. They have no personal occupation, they become depressed, take to whiskey in large quantities—or worse, and therein lies the way to madness.