Tug of Love
Everyone knows that most of mankind, (with the emphasis on Man) is, for the first twenty percent of life, harassed, totally mixed up, and an easy prey to a host of predators.
Along with the fundamental necessity of getting at least eight "O" levels if they are to remain above the breadline for the rest of their lives, the poor fellows are subjected to the pull of television, videos and one armed bandits.
Chaps in the advanced teenage strata, that is, those struggling with "A" levels, have two additional and unquestionably stronger magnetic influences to contend with. There is the gorgeous mini-skirted dolly bird sitting at the next desk to him at school, who, every time she moves, brings out a rush of goose pimples to supplement all the other pimples currently making life sheer hell. This pull might, of course, merely be an intensely painful infatuation, but rarely is it the case with the other -- his first "Banger." That will certainly be true love!
How lucky I was then, I suppose, not to have had these additional complications in my life at that period, as there were no such delectable distractions for a boarder in a boys public school. My father had almost spent his last dime keeping me there and apart from the curriculum which stretched but did not exhaust me, my only interest was in my thirty year old bike. This I had regarded more as a working tool. It was my sole means of transport as I could not afford to pay bus fares and expect to go to the cinema on Saturdays. Accordingly, my Hercules qualified for care and attention, and was even cherished in a sense - but loved, it was not. In fact, I longed for the time I would be well rid of it!
Close to my 24th birthday, "FIFINELLA" came into my life. I was married and had been perfectly faithful till then. I was also reasonably mature, thanks to college, the army, college again and work - hot, long, thirsty and dirty work, commissioning oil and gas plants in the Middle East. It was the Lower Middle actually, or to be more precise, the British Colony of Aden, subsequently to become The Emirates of South Arabia for a few weeks. It then became The People's Democratic Republic Of South Yemen before finally settling for The People's Republic of Yemen. Indeed, the old colony underwent all these changes whilst my wife and I were there. However, if you are inclined to consider this a surprising rate, then you'd be absolutely amazed at the frequency with which they changed their postage stamps!
There were those who believed the changes were part of a brilliant strategy dreamed up by an eastern oriental guru originally called in to advise the tribes on how to "lick" the Brits. .
Their subsequent good fortune was such that they kept him "on call" with a generous retaining fee. He was reputed to have suggested regular alterations to national identity as a ploy to confuse the United Nations Organisation should they choose to blame the newly emerging country for anything. He estimated that the name of the place would probably be given out wrongly fifty percent of the time thus permitting the nation's representative to stand up in UNO's hallowed halls and claim that they weren't, of course, talking about his country.
Another theory, rife at the time, was that the guru was in fact a British agent with a brief "to engineer such confusion, by whatever subtle means, as to result in some of the heat being taken off the United Kingdom in New York." Actually, I had little time to trouble myself with gurus and things politic just then as I was trying desperately to produce petroleum products to the desired specifications.
Fortunately, our commissioning team was experienced enough to "debug" the plants quite quickly and get them to perform to their design requirements. Many members, including myself, were asked to stay on and most of us accepted. In fact, a number of us stayed for eighteen years! My destiny thus changed course again in it's meander through life. There I was, a few thousand miles from home - with the promise of real money at last! I was also ripe for ensnairment, and I succumbed - to "FIFINELLA."
"Fifi" was coloured, and possessed a firm, curvaceous body. There was too, the hint of a murky, mysterious past which, I must admit, excited me no end! She had been used and abused, yet strangely, her beauty was unaffected and she remained a ravishing thoroughbred.
Later lessons in the school of life teach one the need for tolerance through an appreciation that nothing, but nothing, is perfect. I was however, yet to learn this lesson. Imagine my reactions therefore, to the niggardly and derisive observations on "Fifi" by so called well meaning friends. I was furious, and so besotted with her, as to dismiss as delightfully endearing quirks, the glaring shortcomings obvious to my colleagues.
My new love was British to the core, and like me, destined to spend most of her working life flying the flag abroad. I spotted her first in Crater City, pushing her way through the mid morning crowd whilst exhibiting the most delightfully outrageous backside wiggle imaginable! She was of course, far too much of a lady to perform in this manner intentionally, especially outside the "Suq" in broad daylight, but with a rear flat tyre, it was quite unavoidable.
Her unlucky owner bemoaned his fate, stating categorically that there was no way he could afford a replacement. I commiserated with him, and he eagerly accepted my solution to his predicament - the princely offer of 400 East African Shillings (20 Quid) for "Fifi." Accepting the documents and keys with equal eagerness, I replaced the "flat" with a bazaar remould and drove my darling home - over the moon!
"Fifi" stood out in a car-park. Her body was pitch black. In fact, a close look at one or two of her panels suggested that pitch had indeed been applied to cover whatever lay beneath. .She also sported a white emulsion roof. When it rained or became excessively humid, the white emulsion ran down over her doors and boot lid in great streaks so that even from a short distance, anyone suffering from myopia could easily mistake her for a zebra!
Her previous owner, one Abdul Aziz Abdul Ghafur from the Haffat el Qadhi, was 6 Ft 10 Ins, in height, tall even for a Somali, and this had necessitated his having to remove the sliding roof in order to drive.
I learned that it was quite common to see him career through the city with his head sticking out of the opening, sporting goggles and a vintage leather flying helmet! Whilst this useful orifice afforded ready egress for his head, it unfortunately also provided ready ingress to a couple of squadrons of local pigeons who were prone to nest on the back window shelf from time to time whilst "Fifi" was at rest. My first task on acquiring her, therefore, had been to strip her almost down to her suspenders (springs,) and have her thoroughly deloused with Gamaxene.(Compliments of the Camp Boss.)
The gear lever was on the steering wheel, an innovation to me, and I was utterly fascinated with the powerful valve radio. When thoroughly warmed up, this was perfectly capable of pulling in the BBC Overseas Service from London after a bit of fiddling but appeared most of the time to be stuck on Sout al Arab min Kahira.. On removal, the sliding roof had been placed in the boot for safe keeping and some coaxing with a tyre lever and "Gun Gum" restored it to it's former location - watertight. It looked as if "Fifi" and I were now in business and more or less prepared for the wife's arrival from U.K.
Disaster struck at the eleventh hour in the form of a couple of rupee sized apertures in the inboard muffler, prompting Theodore M Buckmaster, an American acquaintance, to exclaim: "Yep Siree, little buddy! It shore as heck sounds like you's all gone and spiked yore big can!" whilst Giovanni Garelli, who had been kind enough to lend me the plugging medium for the roof, observed: "Eh - Signor! I think you putta da gum gun on da ronga da hole, no? And Signor, I ainta gotta no more!"
Consequent upon this set-back, proceeding at any speed below 40 MPH threatened one with total suffocation unless all the windows were open, when one was faced with an equally ghastly choice - sand blasting! In passing, it might be added that my beloved was also a fully paid up member of that vehicular cult disaffectionately known as “Oilers.”
Any attempt to alleviate the situation by atmospheric dilution through an increase in speed introduced an alternative risk, for at precisely 41 MPH - give or take a metre - front wheel wobble of a most alarming kind developed, the type that unhinged the bonnet and threatened to unhinge the engine as well.
The Austin agent , ANDRE.BESSE &CO of Maalla diagnosed too much toe-in. Two inches too much - on each front wheel, monsieur! He also explained that he had found all the wheel rims to be short of several pounds of lead balancing weights. The net result of these phenomena was that even after the shortest outing, one alighted from the car and continued to shake like an advanced alcoholic for the next three minutes or so.
"Fifi's" front offside tyre had obviously been one of some quality as it boasted at least three layers of canvas that were clearly revealed in several places. It's partner was of a different breed, radial and tubeless, and it's only interesting features were several tyre-wall punctures which had been effectively plugged by sliding bolts through the holes and applying chrome nuts and washers tightly to either side.
Another endearing feature of my new love, well to me anyway, though my friends found it a darned nuisance, was the fact that she only had one door handle between the four doors. The others had dropped off at different times in various parts of the desert so that the precious remaining one was kept securely locked in the dashboard locker whilst "on the run!"
Getting out of "Fifi" was consequently a fairly time consuming affair which could only be effected with any kind of decorum, by the strict utilisation of the following procedure:-
1. Stop car and place in first gear. (Waste no time yanking at the hand-brake as this is N.B.G. On
inclines, use brick in the boot.)
2. Lower driver's window and delicately locate hole for handle. Watch the paint and be exceedingly
careful not to drop the handle down any drains.
3. Practising disguised gymnastics, open door and step out with a nonchalant air.
4. Slam door shut and pause to recover from previous exercise.
5. With body ramrod erect, and affecting a disdainful demeanour, now stride round the front of the car
to another exit and repeat these instructions in reverse if there is a passenger to be extricated..
Application of the above regimen invariably attracted a certain amount of attention, and I often thought it appropriate to extend the charade in the club car park in full view of grinning members. On removing a passenger from my automobile, a show would be made of thrusting the precious handle securely in my tuxedo pocket or in my cummerbund if wearing "Red Sea Kit" much as though it was a pistol. The next move was to take the arm of the female, if my companion was of such a gender, and with measured tread, steer her purposefully, looking neither to right nor to left, through the portals of our destination, usually the B.P Club at Bandar Sheikh, there to relieve the very considerable tension -- by laughing like a pair of "drips" in the foyer!
On the day of my wife's arrival, I took my chariot to Khormaksar Airport to meet her and conduct her to her new home, where, for the next 16 years or so, she would be known as "The Memsahib" to the servants, and "Honey" to me.
From the time the "Mem" stepped off the Merlin engined B.O.A.C. "Argonaut," to her release at customs, I never stopped extolling "Fifinella's" virtues so that she was pretty clued up on the car by the time she had entered the car park, eager to make her acquaintance.
Whilst she went on ahead, I paused for a minute or so at the exit from the baggage hall in order to pick up a trolley, and noticed on leaving that there'd been a quick shower. "Oh dear!" I muttered. (Well it was something rather less delicate than that, actually.) "I hope the ruddy emulsion hasn't run. The old girl will be pretty shirty if it gets on her dark travelling dress before I can warn her!"
I hurried to my Austin A.70, but there was no sign of the missus and I had to look some more.
"Hell! That's torn it!" I exclaimed, for six cars beyond "Fifi'" and standing somewhat apart from all the others, was an immaculate black Humber Pullman with a shiny white roof, glass partition, air conditioning, and a pennant flying from one of it's front wings. Further, the red turbaned corporal chauffeur was just beginning to realise that the attractive woman about to head for his the rear door was not in fact the governor’s wife, lady ---
The substitution was completed with a total lack of grace or humour. It was 106 degrees Fahrenheit in the shade on the airport lounge thermometer, but in "Fifinella," it was a darned sight chillier. There was also a distinct paucity of conversation all the way home!
In three days flat, my first auto had been replaced by one of Ford's "Three Graces" - a spanking new, turquoise green, six hundred and fifty pound sterling Ford Consul from Cory Bros of Maalla. The "Mem," with typical feminine intuition, had sensed that there was a new love in my life, and, if there was to be a battle, she was determined that the opposition would at least be worthy of her steel - "not some clapped out old scrubber!!"
"Abdul the Fish," our local "piscateur,” from Bureika village happily drove "Fifinella" off my back doorstep after 15 East African Shillings had changed hands. He was also pleased to take her spare parts, listed hereunder:-
1. Puncture outfit consisting of 4 bolts, 8 nuts, and 8 chromed washers.
2. One second hand pair of Aristoc stockings substituting for an emergency fan belt.
3. Half a litre of white emulsion paint.
To avoid confusion, I would mention that it was yours truly who had to shell out the removal cash -- not Abdul!
Ieuan J Sims. Tenerife,1983.