142
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
How he ever did it is a tribute to his genius for command. He
also went so far as to order the man whose back I was using
to stop breathing.
I hastily shot several one-second exposures. I took the film
into the El Ahram and gave instructions. Eventually I saw
the printed photograph. To my gratification it came out surprisingly clear.
"As our official photographer, you must sit up in front with
us," Moustafa announced. "Don't worry about your bags. I
am in charge of this truck." He spoke to the men on top. They
carefully covered my luggage with blankets, and one of them
was held accountable.
TEA, DRUG, AND HASHEESH
THE sun had set in a blaze of golden flame and the horizon
was still glowing. Our trucks rolled past the outskirts of Cairo
and rumbled into the darkness. I was squeezed in between
Moustafa and the driver. Behind us the Followers of Truth
kept up their monotonous, rhythmic chant: "We are going to
fight for Allah, and Allah will protect us from harm."
"The Jews are praying too," I said. "To which side will
Allah listen?"
"To ours," Moustafa said. "You will sec how we fight like
Allah's own messengers!"
Our driver, a plump Bedouin, presently complained that he
was getting tired. At the next village we stopped in front of a
"smoke house." It was a dirt-brown little place, serving as a
restaurant, coffee house, gossip hangout—and something
more. Fellahs in dirty gallabiyas leaned against the walls, or
sat on the earthen floor or in crude, straw-bottomed chairs,
feet dangling, alternately spitting and smoking the nargileh,
the water-pipe. Others were drinking a syrupy, tar-black tea,
which acted like a mild narcotic.
I saw our G&