Taffs Abroad

By Ieuan J Sims

Taffs Abroad is a series of true tales of events that occurred whilst Dr Sims and his family were home in the UK on vacation from Yemen, where they lived for eighteen years in the oil community of little Aden and where their two children were born.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Jan 25, 2019
• ISBN: 9781728383767

Ieuan J Sims

DR SIMS IS A RECENT WIDOWER AND HAVING RETURNED TO HIS ROOTS NOW RESIDES IN THE MUMBLES NEAR SWANSEA. AT 80 YEARS OF AGE, HE DECIDED TO TURN FROM TECHNICAL WRITING TO AUTOBIOGRAPHICAL WORKS AND STUDIED SHORT STORY WRITING AT SWANSEA UNIVERSITY. HE IS THE AUTHOR OF "TAFFS AT HOME" AND "A CAMBRIAN KALEIDOSCOPE."

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Copyright © 2019 Ieuan J Sims. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse   01/21/2019

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8377-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-7283-8376-7 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019900838

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

To Roly and Anna

Contents

An Invicta in Bureika

An Unexpected Clean-Out

Annal Mussa, Pots, and Pans

A Selection of Toasts

A Topsy-Turvy Experience

Japanese Encounters

Making Entrepreneurs as Well as Petroleum Products (Oh, to Have Been Mr 10 Per Cent)

Artificial Respiration

Bangs and Nappies

Canal Zone Journeys

Der Spion Bug

Don’t Call Me Dai

Fifinella 2

Fear of the Dark

From Colony to Principality

Night-Time Flying

Tears of Joy and Nostalgia

Oh, Do It Again, Honey

Our Russian Neighbours

Anyone for Tennis?

Petticoat Backup

Rot Gut, Dry Rot, and Sweat

Thar She Blows

Tokyo, Here We Come

Ta Ra, Ta Ra

Mixing with the Posh Ones

The Director

The Gibbet Lamp Post

The Imprisoned Congregation

The President Will Take Wine

The Rigged Trial

Tug of Love

What’s in a Word?

A Visit to Texas

When Storm Clouds Brew

Karts Can Be Bad for Your Health

The White Elephant’s Reprieve

My Fire Experiences

The Sweeper

The New Restaurante

A Close Shave

Putting the Brakes on Breaks

Mohameds One and All

Fifi Takes a Dip

A Welcome Arrest

On a Wing and a Prayer

Promotion All Round

A Linguistic Fiddle

In Support of Tanks

About the Author

An Invicta in Bureika

I walked into the bungalow one afternoon to find the memsahib (my wife, Marion) airborne. Well, sort of anyway. She was on top of a stepladder, busily sticking some of our china trinkets on to the top of the lounge window pelmet with the aid of some Araldite. She was also trying to unstick three fingers which appeared somewhat reluctant to be parted. I asked the obvious daft question, of course, and was blasted for my inte rest.

It seemed that as I couldn’t summon up the bottle to tell the chap next door to change gear elsewhere, before half the family heirlooms were smashed to smithereens, she was obliged to take some action herself by sticking them in place. I’d never actually been in the bungalow when it happened, but apparently every time he got to us, he double-declutched, and with a great burst of throttle, engaged bottom gear prior to negotiating the entrance to his garage. This burst of throttle also caused the window to vibrate violently, moving the cherished china on top quite alarmingly.

What sort of a car was capable of this? you might ask. Well, no less a monster than Raymond May’s old white-walled Invicta—or so it was claimed by the owner—a yellow, aluminium-clad thoroughbred housing a brute of a Meadows engine with all the goodies, like two plugs per cylinder and magnetos. Gleaming, chrome-plated, spiral-wound exhaust pipes sprouted out of either side of its enormous bonnet, disappearing into cavernous silencers which terminated in pipes you could just about stick your fists into.

The car was very special; it had been a world-beater in its day and holder of several coveted records. So much so, we were led to understand it could only be bought and sold within the membership of the British Motor Racing Club.

One could easily get uptight over crockery being damaged by a Volkswagen whose silencer had fallen off or one of the huge Euclid trucks that seemed to go up and down our road all day, carrying earth and rocks for the shark bund at the beach. But to get something shattered by a world-famous motor car, well, my wife was just too blinkered to realise it was a sort of honour.

Unfortunately, I voiced this opinion too loudly, and my frustrated missus could take no more. She flung her grandmother’s rare Swansea china teapot in the general direction of my head and missed, thus achieving something the Invicta failed to do. The irreplaceable piece lay in bits on the floor. And having committed the cardinal sin of not catching it, I ceased to be popular.

An Unexpected Clean-Out

W hen our beloved Fifi (our Ford Consul) was about six years old, she very nearly let us down. My wife wanted to buy something or other, and although it was rather late in the afternoon, we decided to make a dash for town, some thirty miles or so around the bay. It seemed a sensible time to go to Steamer Point from our place, as it was beginning to cool down; the sun was low in the sky behind us, and we could get there in reasonably good order before the shops shut.

We parked at the Prince of Wales Pier, and as I shut down the motor, the front end of the car disappeared.

Good heavens, exclaimed my wife. What a heavy mist—and so sudden too. Must be coming off the harbour, darling.

My heart sank as I realised what we were looking at. That’s not mist from any harbour, honey. That’s steam from our ruddy radiator.

Marion put her hand to her mouth in a gesture of dismay and enquired in a tone of great concern if it meant we’d have to buy a new vehicle. Before I could reply, the true female in her took over. I rather fancy that big one the French countess rides about in. And isn’t it funny, darling, but there’s one just like it for sale in the showroom near Salem Ali Abdo’s bus garage up in Crater? It’s just the colour I love, and, and, and—

Hey, hey, hold your horses, I broke in, envisioning a hard-earned grand disappearing from my bank account. It won’t take very long to fit a new radiator, providing the Ford people are still open. Look, you go ahead and do your shopping. I’ll grab a taxi and pop over to Maalla to get one.

There was no time to argue, and I signalled a passing taxi. "Sharika Ford fi Maalla, fisa, fisa, meenfadhlak," I ordered, and we moved off. The driver seemed to me to be taking his time, so to speed him up somewhat, I tried a ruse that always worked in the past.

Is this Opel Kadett yours? I enquired.

Yes, sahib. But this is not a Kadett. This is the big model. It’s a Kapitan.

Really? I said, feigning surprise. You know, I never realised the big Opels were a lot slower than the smaller ones.

Then, as the desired effect materialised, I reached quickly for the grab handle.

A Ford official was locking up as I arrived and was sorry, but I’d have to come back after the weekend. All the staff had gone home, and he was already late for an appointment.

This was a serious situation. I wondered desperately what I could do.

Sorry, he said again. But seeing him pick up a small leather bag with his initials on it in gold, inspiration came to my rescue.

Off to the Masonic Lodge up the road, are you?

He turned and smiled. Why yes. I see you’ve guessed where I’m going.

Right. I’ve seen you there several times when visiting. Actually, I like your floor work very much. Very professional indeed, if I may say so. I prayed he’d be advanced enough to be doing some.

Now he positively beamed. You know, I’ve been wondering if I was all right. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been doing that job very long.

Ha! Could have fooled me, anyway. You must have been putting in an awful lot of practice.

Look, I can spare a minute or two. In fact, I think I know just where I can put my hand on the right rad for you. He hurriedly disappeared into the store, returning a few moments later with the necessary part for Fifi.

I gave him a cheque, thanked him profusely, and said I looked forward to seeing him perform again next time I went up the road. I rushed back to Steamer Point, arriving as my wife appeared at the pier.

Lifting the engine hood, I removed the water hoses and offending radiator with the generous toolkit that Fifi always carried. Trouble struck again, however, and I discovered to my chagrin that the replacement was not for a Consul 4 but for a Zephyr 6.

The air was red for a few minutes. My wife wisely waited for me to cool down a little before asking, What’s wrong, darling? Won’t it fit or something? Isn’t there anything we can do?

What a ruddy clown that chap is, I moaned. I mean, you’d think the damned fool would remember it was a Consul they sold me. It was only six years ago, after all.

My wife commiserated with me and asked again if there was anything that could be done immediately.

Well, necessity is the mother of invention, as they say. And as I couldn’t bolt the new radiator straight into place because it was too wide, I decided to suspend it in place instead.

Got any string in your bag, honey? I enquired optimistically.

Er, no, darling. Do you think elastic will do?

Could be. I’ll give it a try, I muttered. Moving discreetly out of sight of the road, she delved feverishly in her lower garments and came up trumps.

I had to knock two unsightly holes through the hood to secure the radiator. It looked a real lash-up as the hoses were stretched almost flat. But I reckoned the job might just about see us home, with any luck.

Ever practical, my wife now asked where I intended to get some water. The Bani Walad who was normally at the pier, selling it chilled in buckets, appeared to have packed up for the night and gone home.

I swore. This was just not our blankety-blank day. I’ll ruddy well make sure we come with plenty of time to spare in future.

So there we were, still in a pickle, as the shops had also shut by now. As my Indian friends might have said, Vat to do? Deary, deary me! Vat, vat to do?

Now the missus isn’t just a pretty face, as I may have intimated before. And this she demonstrated yet again.

Will Fifi go on Coke, darling?

How damned stupid can you get? I thought and then said so.

Well, it’s liquid, isn’t it? she murmured coldly. And we’ve got a crateful in the boot.

I paused. Her logic couldn’t be disputed, and without another word, I poured in eight big bottles.

After starting the engine, I lay under the front of the car to look for leaks. Everything seemed tight except the radiator, which moved about alarmingly on my wife’s elastic no more than half an inch from the fan.

Slowly, we burped our way home to Little Aden in the dark, Fifi sounding quite disgusting as she periodically blew off the gas from the Coke through her radiator filling cap.

I didn’t drain the engine for another fortnight when a replacement radiator arrived. And when I did, the contents came out like mulligatawny soup. Boy, oh boy, Coke can certainly shift muck from a cylinder block. But I wouldn’t recommend it (unless you’re stuck for a radiator and water some evening and just happen to have a crateful in the boot, that is).

Annal Mussa, Pots, and Pans

W hen the kiddies became a bit of a handful, Marion suggested that we keep up with the Joneses and employ an ayah . These Somali women seemed to be an indispensable part of a number of households, and it was often a fact that having been packed off to boarding school in England, many children missed their ayah as much as their par ents.

Of course, it wasn’t absolutely necessary to have children to qualify for a housekeeper. Being averse to cooking, ironing, cleaning, and washing was a good enough excuse, or the fact that a lady felt that ladies didn’t do that sort of thing.

So we got one called Anab, a big, bosomy, voluptuous, dark-skinned girl. Handsome rather than beautiful, she came to us highly recommended and proved to be a good cook and housemaid, as well as being able to control the kids, who she would readily clip across the head with the tea cloth that always seemed to be draped over her shoulder.

Anab was noisy in all sorts of ways. Perhaps ebullient would be a more fitting term, and things were always lively where she happened to be. Children loved her, and our son and his friends could frequently be heard squealing in excitement as she chased after them with a rolling pin, yelling, I’s going to put you in di pie for dinner.

She would swish through the house. It was a sound peculiar to Somali women, who wore four or five skirts at a time, making them all appear bottom heavy. Somali girls did not normally wear shaidher, mandatory for local Arab females from a fairly tender age, but some would resort to its use occasionally, when going out and not particularly wishing to invite attention. There was nothing timid about these females, however, and a Somali woman could look a man straight in the eye, which was impossible for an Arab woman.

Near the back of our home was a bare concrete pad. It had once been the floor of a bungalow similar to ours, until the place had been burned down by an Arab workman called in to replace some loose bedroom floor tiles for Mr and Mrs Golding. He’d brought along his primus stove and a small drum of tar, and whilst this was brewing up, he popped outside to pass the time of the day with some air conditioning fitters. Returning, he found the bedroom well alight, and with the aid of a very considerable air flow from the rejuvenated A/C machine, there was little left for the firemen to do ten minutes later except to damp down the embers.

It was customary for the Annal Mussa to make their food in their employer’s kitchens and take the pots out to the concrete pad, where they dined communally. This meal took about an hour and buzzed with conversation as all the news of the day was imparted and disseminated. Needless to say, we British figured very largely in all this, and what appeared to them to be some of our antics qualified for great peals of laughter.

The meal over, pots and pans were always returned to their respective kitchens. Sometimes would be more correct, as it was not at all unusual for Marion to bemoan the loss of some utensil or other, or wonder where a new arrival had come from. The memsahibs eventually got over this problem by scratching their house numbers on the more valuable ones.

Once the washing up was completed, the Annal Mussa reassembled on the slab and started to dance and sing. A crowd of Somali men would appear out of the dark; squatting around the edge, they would clap their hands and tap the concrete with their sticks to provide the beat, the girls whirling in wild abandon and showing off their multicoloured underskirts as they spun.

Of course, all this tended to drive the Brits crazy, as they were not exactly Somali attuned, and life only became tolerable when we curtailed their entertainment at this particular location to two nights a week.

Our car had a radio, and the girls listened to a Cairo radio station each evening. The station was known as Saut al Arab (Voice of the Arabs), and Anab and her friends were very keen on it because it started off one of its programmes with songs by the Val Doonigan of the Arabs, an Egyptian film star and singer called Fareed El Atrash.

A minute or two before the programme started, Anab, accompanied by four or five of her cronies, would come knocking on our back door, requesting permission to listen. Marion always said yes, whereupon they would all pile into the back of our car and warm up the radio set, which I had resigned myself to leaving permanently tuned to Cairo.

Station identification over, the announcer would welcome his listeners and introduce the singer. It went something like this:

"Salaam aleykum, Salaam aleykum. Huna Saut Al Arab min al Kahira. Wa elan, Fareed El Atrash ba-yaghunni." (Peace be upon you. This is the Voice of the Arabs broadcasting from Cairo. Fareed El Atrash will now sing.)

There would then be a long pause, as this chap was a past master at winding up the wenches, and all noise would disappear so that one could hear a pin drop. Then he’d start, with a quiet, soulful, tremolo kind of voice.

"Ana wenta, ana wenta, wal khub ikfayaleyna." (You and I, you and I, our love keeps us together.)

High-pitched gasps of Aaaah from the Annal Mussas.

"Ana wenta, ana wenta, ad dunia milk edeyna" (You and I, you and I, together, the world is ours), followed by a higher pitched scream from our Anab.

Everything now went mad in my automobile, as laughing and warbling in the Arab fashion, the dusky maidens climbed out, carrying Anab between them, completely sent. They would take her to her room and throw her none too gently onto her bed and then hurry back to the car for another dose of the singer.

This performance would often be repeated, as Fareed gave one or other of the girls the vapours, and now and again, he would cop the lot in one go, which resulted in my having a flat battery in the morning, the girls having been too far gone to remember to switch off the radio.

One night, two policemen arrived at our front door and produced a small Prestige kitchen knife, enquiring if it was ours. Well, one Prestige knife looked very much like another to us, especially as the company had supplied a hundred houses with about fifteen each.

We weren’t sure. Why? we asked.

Well, did we have a Somali girl called Anab Noor?

Yes we have, Marion replied, looking thoroughly alarmed. Has anything happened to her?

No. Not to her exactly, said one of the cops. "But she had an argument with another Somali girl in a bus in Crater Pass, and somehow, by accident no doubt, she stuck this knife into her.

Fortunately, the blade was only four inches long and had had a bit of a job getting through six skirts, so that the damage was only superficial. The victim, however, swore that she was dying.

Anab was taken to court and fined eleven pounds, which we had to pay, as she hadn’t saved any money for such contingencies.

Not wishing to be known as one who harboured criminals, Marion decided to give her her cards a few days later.

Thankfully (and this could easily have happened), we weren’t charged with aiding and abetting because she used our knife, for as Marion pointed out, the fact that a knife happened at a particular time to be in our kitchen was no guarantee that it was ours at all, Annal Mussa being Annal Mussa, that is.

A Selection of Toasts

M y pal Dave bought a beautiful Hillman Minx sports car, and within a week, it had sustained its first bump, having been pranged by an Arab contracting engineer on site.

The chap had been most upset, apologised profusely, and told Dave that he would have a word with his boss immediately he returned to the office. He was almost certain that repairs and a respray could be carried out within a week in his company workshops. Meanwhile, perhaps Dave would do him the honour of making use of his Humber Super Snipe.

Dave and his wife Nan, enjoyed the opulence of this car, with its rich, leather upholstery, fine timber dashboard, and air conditioning. Five days later, they had a call from the engineer. He was sorry about the delay. There was a slight problem with the matching of the paint, but he was certain they would get it right in a few more days. Dave told him to take his time; he and Nan could put up with the Super Snipe for a little while longer.

I don’t think I would have told him that, I remarked. After all, it’s a true gas guzzler and must be an awful drain on the old exchequer.

Ah, I forgot to mention that, he said, chuckling. The juice hasn’t cost us a bean, actually. Their company has its own pumps, as you know. They found it much more economical than running their transport twenty miles down the road every day just to fill up. We pull in there when we’re ready for another tankful, and as it has the company logo on the doors, the pump attendant fills the car up without question. We’ve already had three loads this week. Nan and I don’t mind driving long distances when it’s so nice and cool inside. Goodness knows how many times we’ve driven passed the governor’s residence, the sheikh’s palace, and the army HQ. Nan loves to see all the guards springing to attention and saluting as we approach.

Ultimately, it took two months to fix the Hillman, as they discovered that a new nearside door was also required. On a sports car, this was somewhat larger than on the corresponding saloon model, and the agent had to send off to Rootes Group for a replacement.

Meanwhile, the fun wore off, as Dave and Nan lost most of their friends. Even their immediate neighbours wouldn’t talk to them, all being envious of the limousine parked outside their bungalow (always spotlessly clean), also courtesy of the contracting company. After all, it was in the same class as the general manager’s car, and Dave was just an operator.

Dave had refrained from explaining why it was there at first, thinking it something of a lark, but when he and Nan realised the effect it had on local relations, they felt that it was as good an opportunity as any to see who their real friends were. However, all good things must come to an end.

I was enjoying a quiet drink with Dave in his lounge one evening when the engineer and his managing director arrived.

The director was a charming Lebanese fellow Dave and I both knew vaguely. He was delighted to say that the Hillman was outside, looking as good as new, and please, could they have their car back, as the engineer’s wife, the MD’s sister, was fed up of driving around in a Jeep. Apparently, this had been detrimental to her community image, apart from effectively sandblasting away her carefully prepared make-up every time she went out.

Dave asked them if they would like to come in and slake their thirst with some lager, which was all right for Christian Lebanese. The director made a point of not drinking alcohol during Ramadan, however. He told us that this was both out of respect for his Moslem brethren and for his health. He said he had almost been killed by a zealot at a roadside cafe once whilst quaffing a pint. It had only been three hours into the annual, month long fast.

Six jars more, and the director was waxing lyrical. It seemed he had trained as a lawyer in France, having come from a wealthy Beiruti family, but he had preferred to go into industry and had quickly climbed to the top. Like most educated Lebanese, he could converse well in several languages, and liked to demonstrate it.

Seeing him becoming a little the worse for wear, Dave suggested that they all have one for the road.

The director said he knew that term well and was very fond of using it himself when he would send his guests home with a generous helping of a very potent Lebanese brew.

He was noted for throwing splendid dinners at his palatial residence and was famous for standing in the middle of the table, proposing toast after toast, until all his guests collapsed and had to be taken home by his men, all neatly laid out in the back of trucks.

This also explained why they were all required to wear plastic tabs around their necks—supplied by his staff and to be found wrapped around the serviettes at the festive board—containing their names and addresses. Those not too tipsy to recall, remembered drinking to such august personalities as Julius Caesar, Christopher Columbus, Charlie Chaplin, Bismark, Semia Gamal (Egypt’s celebrated belly dancer), and little Walid Thabet, an Arab beggar boy always to be found on station outside the Arab market gate.

"Shante," said the director, taking an enormous swig from his glass.

Oh, cheers! murmured Dave, praying he wouldn’t smash it Russian style.

Shkol, returned the director, raising his voice a couple of octaves.

Losh of mud in your eyeballs, offered Dave.

"Iechyd Da!" I added, determined not to be outdone and topping up the two visitors again.

Oh. Thanksh, said the grateful engineer. Sha–, Sha– Shalud.

Down the hash. Ha, see? Can’t beat me, you silly old bee, sang the director, but Dave was determined to try.

"Shlanjeefar, he shushed. As far as you can blooming well go."

Then, not forgetting his duty to be generous to his guests, he poured out yet another large bottle of lager, half into the director’s glass and half down his left trousers leg, hoping it would encourage him to push off.

He didn’t appear to have much luck, however, as the director, old hand though he was at the game, could not now differentiate between wet and sweat.

Washer—washer Germans shay? Can’t weemembah. Wery, wery funny. Ha! Ha! Ha.

Dave sensed he had the edge on him at last. He winked at me, and indicating the bottles on the table with a faint nod, he put his arm gently around the Lebanese and exclaimed, Got yous at lasht! Only nasharal, weely, I shpose, cos I drinks mush, mush more than you lot.

Okay! Okay! I’m givin—hin—hic, hiccuped the director, losing some fluency. Shay me pleez worrish shit?

Thought you’d know that, you old stinker, I hooted, but the director missed my subtle remark.

Dave struggled to hold him up whilst the engineer tried to hold them both up, and this human tripod swayed around in the middle of Nan’s lovely lounge, threatening to collapse at any moment. Through my alcoholic haze, I began to get quite alarmed as the ceiling lamp shade was knocked to the floor, prompting the trio to start a game of headers with the now-naked electric light bulb.

Well, cum on, ’en. Temmi worit ish, squeaked the director.

Orright. Orright, my good fred, Dave cried triumphantly. The Jerries shay, ‘LAUWENBRAU,’ sho there.

Acoursh! Absholootly acoursh, giggled the director. Shilly boy to forget.

And with a high jump, he head-butted the bulb to the ceiling, where it disintegrated into a thousand pieces and fell back all over us and Nan’s settee.

Goal, screamed the director. Goal, goal, goal.

Then, abruptly thanking his host for being so understanding over the car, he staggered with his engineer