140
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
We hastened to two waiting automobiles. Hussein, his officers, Moustafa, Sheikh Azaayim, and I climbed into them,
and off we went. We arrived at a quarter dense with milling
natives, the women completely covered, despite the sweltering
heat, in black clothing, and hordes of sticky children everywhere. Excitement reigned, with screaming and screeching
going on everywhere. On the narrow dirt street, a half dozen
sturdy American-made trucks were lined up. Everybody was
directing the loading of tins of gasoline, sacks of flour and
grain, onions, olives, Vickers machine-guns, and rifles. Dressed
incongruously in riding breeches, trim American military coat
(obtainable in Cairo's bazaars for five dollars), and white flowing headdress, Sheikh Azaayim, leader of the Followers of
Truth, pitched in and began to direct all the directors—no
easy job!
"Artour, Artour!" It was Hussein. "Take pictures. We are
making history!"
Catching quicksilver is far easier than getting Arabs to pose
naturally for a group photo. The camera must be quicker than
the Arab, which is impossible! They strut, they simper, they
push one another to get in the front. Finally they line up like
a jumbled mass of upright sticks, each in a theatrical pose. I
took a number of such pictures, with Arabs three layers deep,
Ahmed Hussein, Sheikh Azaayim and Moustafa in front. . . .
I confess I was getting to like Moustafa more and more. He
was a born leader and always seemed to be calm. I kept close
to him.
Above the din someone started to yell "Yallah!" It was
taken up by the Followers of Truth, by the men, the women,
the children. The native quarters rang with "Yallah!" It's a
universal Arab phrase, meaning "Let's go!"
Two hundred of us piled into the trucks. Everybody was
screaming at the top of his voice. Women leaned out of the
long-shuttered windows waving ecstatically at us. Then they
suddenly began emiting shrill tremolo cries, their tongues
rapidly darting in and out, palms clapping their mouths,