A Game With Dice: Introduction
I had had an uneventful flight from Doha to Dhahran, in the Persian Gulf, in a little four-engined Heron. In the very early sixties, flying in the Gulf was still somewhat rudimentary, but the only way to get about. As Sales Manager for the local Shell marketing company, this is what I had to do.
In Dhahran I climbed into an ancient DC3, bound for Riyadh. The desert shimmered in about 100 degrees in the shade, and the informal activity at the small airport proceeded at its usual leisurely pace. The pilot and co-pilot, in faded khaki, were doing mysterious things in the cockpit. The passengers made their way into the aircraft: a few Arabs in white robes (dish-dashas), a European businessman, an Indian clerk. Last to come aboard was a burly Saudi policeman, handcuffed to a wild-looking man who was chained hand and foot.
"He's all right," said the policeman in Arabic, "just a little majnoun, you know, not quite right in the head. I have to take him to Riyadh."
They took the seat immediately behind me, and the policeman transferred his end of the handcuffs to the bar on the back of my seat. The madman sat gibbering quietly to himself. The propellers began to turn.
The engines roared, the tail lifted and we were off in a huge cloud of yellow-brown dust. As the plane banked and set course to the west, I could see the gentle curves of the sand dunes undulate towards the horizon.
I felt the madman patting me gently on the head. I turned to look. The policeman smiled, showing yellow, broken teeth. "He likes you," he said.
We flew on. Some twenty minutes later, we began our descent towards a small airstrip, serving a village in the middle of nowhere. We landed and taxied to a small hut. The engines went on running. The door opened and the heat hit us like a wall of fire; the temperature must have been well into three figures.
The first of the new passengers to board was a short, rather self-important Arab gentleman carrying a cardboard box. He was followed by two ladies, presumably his wives, indistinguishable under a pyramid of flowing black robes and in traditional masks; through the eyeholes I could see sparkling black eyes. The ladies were loaded with a large assortment of household goods, bundles and boxes. Finally came a ragged young boy dragging three goats, which resisted strongly.
The door closed, and we were off again. As we climbed, the atmosphere became cooler, and the passengers relaxed. The madman was howling quietly to himself, and giving my head the occasional pat. Presumably he still liked me. The family group chattered away, the goats tethered at the back and the boy sat beside them on the floor.
The plane droned on. The madman decided he had to go to the toilet, so the policeman detached the handcuffs from the back of my seat and locked the end on his wrist, before getting up and escorting his charge to the rear of the plane.
Suddenly I smelt the pungent odour of charcoal smoke. Craning my head towards the back, I saw one of the Arab ladies squatting in the gangway lighting a charcoal brazier to make coffee for her husband. She poured some lighter fluid on the charcoal and flames gushed from the contraption. The goats seemed restless.
Just at this moment, the madman and his escort came out of the toilet. The madman stumbled, and fell, with a rattle of chains, onto the brazier. He howled and kicked, getting one of the goats in the belly. The goats, terrified, broke loose and ran up and down the plane; there was burning charcoal everywhere and the coffee lady screamed. The boy tried to crawl under the nearest seat. The policeman, in a reflex action, drew his revolver and the passengers piously implored Allah to protect them. The Indian clerk was wagging his head from side to side and muttering "Oh dearie me, oh dearie me!"
At this point, the madman began loudly cursing Allah, an unspeakable blasphemy and obscenity. The passengers, convinced that their last hour had come, uttered pious disclaimers and begged forgiveness on his behalf. The Indian clerk's voice rose by an octave.
The co-pilot charged out of the cockpit with a large fire extinguisher. He almost got to the burning charcoal when he was tackled by a goat, and fell, spraying the surrounding area with foam. The madman was rushing up and down, dragging the policeman behind him; one of the goats had got into the cockpit from which there came a series of oaths. The plane wobbled. I wondered what my family would do without me.
Gradually, things got back to normal. The madman, frothing a little at the mouth, was again tethered to the back of my seat. The goats were recaptured and tied up in the back. The fire was out and the passengers managed to wipe off most of the foam. The husband agreed to wait for his coffee until we had landed.
This we duly did at Riyadh, about an hour later. I hurried to disembark, after a final pat on the head from the friendly madman. It had been an exciting trip, but not as exciting as the first one I took as a child.
But perhaps I should go back to the beginning...