208
CAIRO TO DAMASCUS
BEACHPARTY,ARABFASHION
I INQUIRED my way to the beach to find Moustafa and the
others. The Mediterranean shore here was dotted with rotting
hulks and small fishing vessels, and everywhere were huddled
male groups. It was one of the strangest beach parties I ever
saw. It was strictly stag, with not a single woman in sight,
and every man in flowing gallabiya, bournous, or combination
native and European garb. They were playing backgammon,
drinking hot tea, coffee, arak (a Middle Eastern form of
brandy), and smoking the nargileh. To the left was a whitewashed shanty—the coffee house. Most of the Arabs reclined
in the shade provided by blankets hung from poles driven in
the sand; some sat on short, squat bulrush chairs.
Guarding the beach were Arab Legion soldiers, wearing
the red and white dotted khaffiya instead of the customary
white. An English army truck was pulled up on the sand: in it
were more Legion soldiers—at a time when the presence of
the Legion in Palestine was hotly denied by official British
spokesmen, as I was to learn later.
I located our party, including Faris and Sammy and Ismail,
but Moustafa was nowhere around. Faris was chatting with
four companions, and as I watched them I realized that they
were homosexuals. The most warlike among them—judging
by his dress and armaments—was a rotund, pasty-faced, slovenly man in his late twenties who spoke excellent English.
"Where did you learn English?" I asked.
"From the English soldiers. They have a big camp at Rafa."
"How do you like the English?"
"Very much, indeed. Some of them are exceptionally
friendly and nice. I wish they weren't planning to leave."
He was the first Arab I had met who had a kind word for
the British.
Sammy and his lover couldn't seem to have enough of each