Mysteries of the Libyan Desert

by W. J. Harding King

When dinner and tea were over, and our cigarettes had been lighted, the Coptic doctor took possession of the gramophone, and we were regaled by Arab songs and tunes. Songs, band pieces and an occasional recitation followed each other for about half an hour. At length a very dreary tune was put on, and, as everybody voted it a bore, Sheykh Ahmed went over to the pile of records and began sorting them over, saying that he would find something better.

The record that he put on the machine proved to be a dialogue between a man and his wife, who after a few sentences started to quarrel violently, abusing each other and calling each other all the filthy and disgusting names that even the Arabic language could produce. This record evidently appealed to the audience, for they fairly roared with laughter at some of the remarks. As soon as it was finished and had been repeated, Sheykh Ahmed put on a song, which I was quite unable to follow, but which, from the remarks of the audience, must have been of an exceedingly racy character.

That gramophone was a great institution, but one that in my second year in the desert nearly led to unpleasant complications. On my return to Cairo, after my first season in the desert, I ordered half a dozen records to be sent to Sheykh Ahmed as bakhshish—leaving the choice of them to the shop assistant, as being more likely to know what would appeal to native tastes.

I visited Sheykh Ahmed again during my second season, and the gramophone was once more brought out and my records produced. Sheykh Ahmed had kept them in a separate place from the others in his collection, and I suspect had never put them on his gramophone before. But he placed them, one by one, on his machine and sat over it, beating time to the music, politely pretending to be thoroughly enjoying them. From this I gathered that he was entirely unaware of the nature of the music that his gramophone was producing—for they were certainly not records that I should have selected to send to a Senussi sheykh.

Some years later, owing to a slight difference of opinion with the Government authorities, Sheykh Ahmed found it convenient to clear out suddenly with his family and belongings to Kufara.

If some future visitor to that oasis should hear proceeding from a native house a fine baritone voice, announcing that he will “sing him songs of Araby and tales of fair Kashmir,” or a choir of voices, accompanied by a brass band, exhorting him to further efforts by the inspiring strains of “Onward, Christian soldiers! marching as to war,” he will be able to locate Sheykh Ahmed’s house, and will know where those records came from.

I called at the shop, when next I was in Cairo, to ask why records so entirely inappropriate for a present to a Senussi sheykh had been sent to him. During the course of a rather heart-to-heart talk on the subject, the shop assistant explained that, as he had not expected me to go out again to the oasis, he had chosen those records as “a joke.” It certainly had a humorous side; the sight of that unsuspecting Senussi sheykh politely beating time to “Onward, Christian soldiers!” was quite worth seeing!

But to return to my first visit to Sheykh Ahmed’s ezba. When that gramophone’s repertoire came to an end, a lengthy and serious discussion took place as to whether our digestion of the dinner was sufficiently far advanced to allow us to go to bed. Although it was then past two o’clock in the morning, the conclusion that was unanimously arrived at was that we should give our digestions some further time to continue their work before we retired. The company had evidently determined to make a night of it.

It was decided at first that we should have a little more music. The policeman during the morning had manufactured a sort of penny whistle out of a piece of cane. The mamur got hold of an iron tray, which he proceeded to use as a tamtam. The Coptic doctor, having had the advantage of an education under European teachers at the Qasr el ’Aini hospital in Cairo, was more civilised in his choice of an instrument—he managed to get hold of a comb from somewhere, and, with a piece of paper added, proved to be a first-rate performer. Having thus improvised a jazz band, they proceeded to make the night hideous by singing over again some of the songs they had heard on the gramophone.

At length, tiring of that amusement, they proceeded to play a childish game, in which one of them thought of something and the others, by questioning him in turn, tried to find out what it was. This caused considerable amusement, and the fun waxed fast and furious. The game was evidently a popular one. But the things that that sanctimonious Senussi sheykh thought of—well! they were Eastern! so much so that I eventually went to bed, and left them still playing—so austere were the Senussi!