(A sneaky look into my past.)
We got back late, and Tamanrasset airstrip was barely visible in the late evening light. Fred our Captain throttled back and let the old D.C.3. lumber at five hundred feet and in the general direction of the airport complex.
“Perfect one and a half point landing,” muttered Slade our navigator, as the aircraft bounced down the dirt runway. A record for Fred, I counted five in all, six as the tail wheel ground into the sand.
Achmed from ground-staff shoved the chocks beneath both wheels and I covered the pitot head. Looking up I saw a strange sight, and for a moment, thought it was a mirage. An ancient Rolls Royce sedan with open top was heading towards us with a an escort of motor cycles.
“What the Hell is this?” asked Fred, stepping from the aircraft.
“God knows, I just hope they haven’t come to arrest us!”
The driver of the Rolls bore a greeting card written on a piece of cardboard, and handed it to Fred. It said, “You flying boys who do survey of our country are invited to dine with His Excellency Sheik Turan bin Rashid, please to come now!”
The invitation was shakily signed in what looked surprisingly like blood.
“Now?” We were tired, hungry, thirsty, and badly needed a shower, the last thing we wanted was an official dinner with a Sheik.
“NOW!” replied the driver.
Humping four tins of exposed film and a couple of rolls of data paper into the back seat, the driver whisked us off into the deepening night.
After about twenty minutes of driving through dust and sand, we arrived at our destination. A group of army type tents and an orange looking marquee.
As we alighted from the car, we could smell that it was supper time!
None of knew exactly what it was however, and like `the Bisto kids’ we followed it into the marquee.
There sat our host the Sheik on a pile of silk cushions at the head of a huge carpet that was literally laden with food.
After the introductions were over, we three aviators sat down on a cushion apiece, and were given what looked like a menu.
Of course, it wasn`t. It was a list of instructions in pidgin English regarding table manners while dining with a Sheik.
Hands above the table at all times was one of them, but eat only what the Sheik eats was possibly the most worrying!
Lying well cooked on a silver platter was a highly decorated center-piece. My first thoughts were that of greyhound. Fred said something like, “That`s where the smell was coming from, it`s a gazelle.”
I stuck to greyhound, remembering the lean looking canines that lurked around our Hotel , and hoped to God that our Sheik was a vegetarian. I should have known better.
Our plates were great heavy platters probably made of stone, and I doubt very much whether I could pick the thing up with one hand should I be tempted to ask for more.
The meal began with a selection of fruit. All eyes on the Sheik, we watched his every move as per instructions. Dates, raisins, dates, raisins, watermelon and back to dates.
This was really jolly. Using our right hand, we dug in according to `the boss’.
The jar of pickled onions was next on the menu. This was ceremonially passed around. A hands on affair for each of us. Just before I popped the pickle into my mouth, I took a casual glance at it and decided not to.
Goat eyeballs are not a great delicacy for the English, though Slade looked like he was enjoying his. Taking my handkerchief from my pocket, I managed to do a cover up.
Gazelle was next! This was an eye-opener, excuse the pun.
The carcase of the unfortunate beast housed most of the meat, which had been previously cut up. Removing the rib section, our host groped into the innards, pulling out the odd kidney and copious amounts of `white meat’ to boot.
When it came to my turn, my stomach was ready to revolt. Likewise the Sheik who let out a tremendous belch. Fred managed to follow suit, but with nothing like the enthusiasm of our host.
I have failed to mention the wine served at the carpet. One sip, and it seared its way down like an agonising ball of fire, bringing tears to my eyes and leaving me quite breathless.
Fred, who had a good knowledge of wines nudged me and whispered, “Fermented camel piss.” He was probably right!
Back to fruit again, we ended with citrus of sorts, then sat and waited for coffee.
We said our farewells, and our Rolls took us back to the Hotel, stopping on the way for Slade to regurgitate most of what he ate.
A few scotch and sodas later in the Hotel bar, we discovered that none of us had actually succumbed to the goats eyeballs, we had all faked it very well.
Emptying my handkerchief onto the bar, I showed my two to the barman who damn near had a stroke. “Effendi, this is very serious, you must eat this delicacy with great relish or the Sheik will be very offended.”
“Offended,” I laughed, “What can he do, kill me?”
“Yes,” said the barman, “He has killed for less!”
I felt fine until Muthan promptly popped them both into his mouth and munched them greedily up.
Aerial Survey work in the French Sahara certainly opened my eyes.
Today, I find I just can`t look at a lean dog in the face without remembering Sheik Turin bin Rashid, and his dinner party for three.
A rare experience, one of those once in a lifetime jobs.
I certainly got an `eyeful’.
