('On-line' excerpt of)
'VIA RISHIKESH' - A HITCH-HIKER'S TALE
by Paul Mason
© Paul Mason 2004

*Dedicated to the ones I love*

Chapter 9

DOWNTOWN GINGERPOPOLI

The sky it is clearing

The boat it is steering its way through the fog,

It could be a good day,

It should be a good day,

Beyond the fog,

The crash of the sunlight startling bright,

Sending beams that scatter the night,

The birds they are soaring on the wing,

The sun it is shining on everything,

Beyond the fog.

Who wants to know what the future holds?

When the sun soothes away the chilling cold.

Who wants to know?

Arising with the first rays of the morning sun I surveyed the beach about us, a delightful expanse of light coloured sand adjoining the gently lapping stillness of the 'Med'. Sea birds gliding on the wing and Yolanda gazing out to sea, an air of contentment surrounding her. With no need to rush, we had time to enjoy the moment.

Vaguely in search of breakfast we took steps to find a cafe, an Italian style expresso bar provided us with frothy coffee and cake. Not the ideal breakfast, but certainly better than nothing. From there we took to walking along the road parallel to the seafront. Not out of place but certainly a curiosity were odd-fashioned hotels with names such as Grand Hotel and Uaddan of the like one would find in Hastings or Bexhill. In their gardens, stood immense and ancient palm trees. A signboard on the roadside directed the way to the British Embassy, we thought we'd pop in for a chat.

On our way to the Embassy we struck up a conversation with one of the locals, a chap named Dowee. Coincidentally we knew someone back in London, his spitting image a guy called Dario.

'What's that chick's name?' I had once asked him.

'I know who you mean. You'll land her man.'

'Really?' I had asked. 'But what's her name?'

'You'll land her!' he said with grinning impatience. I let the matter drop, though still puzzled as to why he wouldn't tell me her name. When Yolanda and I started getting more interested in each other a rift came between Dario and myself. It was never spoken of but it was there.

Someone once said 'You chase a woman until she catches you!'. In my case I did no chasing and to be fair to Yolanda, nor did she. It was as though each saw something familiar in the other.

'We'll come back here after we've been to the embassy,' I offered.

'Sure. Okay. I'll wait,' Dowee replied leaning on his car.

As we made our way to the embassy we talked of them, the likeness was more than a passing one. it was unnerving, same bone structure, mannerisms, attitude, altogether an uncanny resemblance.

I turned the handle and entered the room of youngish looking diplomats. I glanced at the names on the desks, Bull and Carrington and sensed a social gulf. 'Hi. Can we ask you a few questions?'

'Of course. You are English?'

'Yes I am. My girlfriend here is Italian.'

'How do you do?' he asked politely as we shook hands. He revealed that at present we were the only western tourists in Tripoli. Giving a brief resume of our route so far, I explained how we wished to go to India and told him our intended route. Together we inspected a large scale map of the region, something flustered the besuited official, perhaps it was the casual way in which I put myself across. 'Impossible,' he blurted, ' You can't go across the desert, the only traffic there is the occasional oil tanker. You had better return to England. I urge you to seriously reconsider your situation.' To these air-conditioned diplomats, we presented nothing more than a nuisance even an embarrassment. I hastily offered my thanks and got up to leave.

Outside stood our new found friend, who suggested that he might take us for a meal. We headed for 'Downtown Ginger-popoli'. At the mention of the name I creased up with laughter. For me Christmas was not complete without at least one bottle of good old Idris Ginger Pop. The cause of my mirth was lost on both Yolanda and Dowee.

Coasting through the luxurious 'new town' we had a choice of places to eat, Guy and Joe's Snack Bar, Hot Meals : Red Cat and Tavola Calda being just a few of the options. A swift consensus of opinion and the car was left in the car park of the Italian sounding one.

'Cheese salad and Coke please,' I requested, noticing Yolanda nodding I added, 'Twice.'

For someone only just recovering from the grips of dysentery it was difficult to know what to eat for the best. The atmosphere of the restaurant, relaxed and spacious combined with our first square meal in ages did much to bolster my spirits. That the conversion between the three of us was conducted totally in English put the icing on the cake.

Dowee I gathered had visited the United States and was inordinately proud of this fact. Although I had not been to America myself I could tell that much of the style in Gingerpopoli owed much to that country.

We became frequent visitors to this part of town over the following couple of weeks. In the company of different new found friends we sampled the delights of both Uptown and Downtown Tripoli.

At night we slept untroubled on the beach. One morning after the daily ceremony of waking up drenched by the morning mist, drying off in the intense heat of the sun, then running off the beach in search of some shade, we met with friend Dowee. We picnicked on an idyllic deserted palm beach beyond Tripoli. Under a large parasol we shared a meal together and fooled around on the sands. Taking a dip in the sea, I found it to be crystal clear and replete with exotic fishes. Dowee introduced us to the miracle of the Land camera which produced 'instant' pictures of us sitting around the beach. The umbrella gave us shade from the blistering heat, else we would have had to return earlier. In the event when in the late afternoon we did venture back to Tripoli, the way through appeared to be barred.

'Cholera outbreak. They've sealed the city off with roadblocks,' he informed us nervously, 'but I have an idea.'

He was as eager to re-enter the city as we were, if not more so. Whizzing around the outskirts of Tripoli, churning up the sand and all the time looking about him furtively, a look of relief fell upon his open face. Yanking wildly at the steering wheel, the car squeezed through a narrow lane.

'We've done it!' he ejaculated.

Safely inside the city again, he pulled up and conferred with some men standing in the street. On returning to the car he asked if we would mind going with him to the hospital to get vaccinated against cholera, we arrived in a jiffy. Outside the modern hospital stood lines of men and women waiting in the sunshine. Shepherded past the waiting populous we were given red carpet treatment and whisked to the front of the queue where we received our 'shots' and vaccination cards. Shots they certainly were. The doctor held a large tool akin to an electric drill or a gun, a needle containing the vaccine pierced through our clothes. All over in a matter of moments and I hardly felt a prick.

'The American troops are restricted to base,' Dowee informed us.

'What American troops? What are they doing here?' I asked.

'Don't drink any tap water for a while,' he answered.

He took us back to his home 'to meet the wife' and spin a few sounds. Of the music the hippest record I could find was by Roger Whitaker. Though 'King of the Road' was not entirely unwelcome the nonsense of 'Eng-a-land swings like a pendulum do, bobbies on bicycles two-by-two..' had me wishing for my own selection back home.

After this visit Yolanda confided me a theory she had evolved, simply that Arabs liked their womenfolk both plump and light skinned. To this end they keep them out of the sunshine and let them eat a lot.

Of our stay in Tripoli the single most important feature must be that of the cholera scare. No Coca-Cola or Fanta was available since it contained local water which turned out to be a blessing as the alternative to bottled soft drinks was canned pineapple juice. These came from South East Asia with altogether unlikely names, Telephone Brand a firm personal favourite. That the Yank soldiers were restricted to base, I found mildly amusing.

Since our arrival the 'next step' had been an ongoing question. On a visit to the Egyptian Embassy we had been charmed by the representative but had departed confused and a trifle depressed. According to him, for reasons he couldn't or wouldn't explain, there was no way that we could cross into Egypt overland. He impressed upon us how welcome we would be in Egypt but insisted that the only way for us to arrive was by boat or aeroplane, both sounded expensive.

My first instinct was to strike out for Benghazi the next major town along the coast, and to try our luck at the border. I was unsure about this line of action for the man at the embassy had been most emphatic in his advice. Since flying was obviously out of the question, a trip to the shipping office was in order.

'Yes there's a boat sailing for Benghazi and Alexandria on the 31st of August,' he informed us.

'We'll have two tickets to Alexandria then.' I interrupted.

'I was about to say .... that due to this cholera scare the boat will not be stopping at these ports,' he added.

'How can it go there but not stop?' I snapped impatiently.
He continued, 'The boat will not go to Benghazi or Alexandria. It is bound for Istanbul but it will stop in Athens.'

The way forward was three pronged. Take our chances and go to the Egyptian border. Get a boat to Italy and re-route, an option Yolanda warmed to. Lastly and the strongest contender, to take the ship to Istanbul. There was of course yet another solution. To take the advice of the British embassy and give up.

We needed extra cash, even deck class tickets would strain our resources. How could we get extra cash? The situation was desperate, I hit upon an idea. We presented ourselves back at the embassy whereupon I told them that we had lost some of our money. Could we therefore borrow enough for our needs? When the official showed no interest in our predicament I became angry and frustrated. After all we didn't wish to borrow much. He remained adamant and a hostile exchange ensued during which I gave his desk a huge shove. The floor became strewn with papers and objects that formerly graced the desktop and now the drawers seemed set to follow them. Having given vent to my feelings I assumed an indignant air and made my exit.

Some time later we hit on another idea. We could raise money selling something. Standing on the esplanade we offered a little silver pillbox of Yolanda's to passers by. Considering that we might raise a few pounds for it we spoke eagerly of its beauty and usefulness. Time after time good natured Libyans out for a stroll would stand with bemused expressions as we did our sales pitch. Smiling they explained that they had no need for it. As for the precious metal, they brandished their wrists and hands which gleamed brightly adorned as they were with heavy gold bracelets and rings.

'Non a biamo soldi,' Yolanda explained to them that we we didn't have money (for the boat trip).

Partly out of pity but equally out of open handed generosity they gave us money for our efforts. Opening bulging wallets containing upwards of a hundred pounds they would give us a pound or two. With sustained effort we received enough to almost pay for our tickets. What a good bunch of people they were.

Whilst we had no trouble with anyone as we slept on the beach, we did have the occasional visitors. One night a friend of a friend Steevee came to share our company. He didn't speak he just stood there. Sharing our worries about how we might raise enough money to get to India Steevee at last spoke.

'What have you got to sell?'

'Silver box, penknife nothing more,' I said.

He was unimpressed.

'You sell me something. I have lots of money.'

Certainly in a society far more affluent than Britain it was difficult to know what we had to trade. I strained hard, it seemed he wanted to help.

'What do you want to buy?' I asked at length.

'I want ....,' he said very quietly.

'Pardon. I didn't hear you,' I said.

'I want fuck,' he said.

Neither aggressive nor offensive, he had stated an answer to my question, nothing more.

'Okay,' I answered 'You want a fuck. FUCK!!. Now how much will you give for that?' It diffused the situation. He wandered off and drove away. I just hoped we hadn't made an enemy. When his friend heard about the incident he couldn't stop apologising, he was very angry on Yolanda's behalf. She wasn't that bothered about his words, I think she was worried he might get desperate, the matter soon blew over however.

In a city whose street signs are all written in Arabic it's not at all easy knowing where you are. Information received (as the police jargon goes) had it that up until a few months before the streets were all signposted in English. Another recent change had been in the prohibition of alcohol. Unobtainable in bars or restaurants it wasn't totally unavailable elsewhere. Interviewed by a foreign correspondent for the News of the World (or so he claimed) we were plied with illegal rum. After a disjointed interview the journalist promised a story would be 'wired' to London.

There is only one thing worse for a teetotaller than being drunk. That is being drunk in a country where liquor is illegal thereby running the risk of discovery. Though unable to walk a straight line we had the good sense to keep our exhalations to ourselves, no mean achievement on a crowded street.

I never saw the resulting story though we did try to obtain a copy of the article. The following Sunday we found a newsagents where we discovered the proprietor busy locating and scissoring out advertisements for ladies undergarments, presumably censorship called for by the authorities.

* * *

The cholera jabs had caused us a fair amount of misery, our arms became swollen and sore making sleep very difficult. We had been told to return for boosters after ten days. Muassat Hospital far along the seafront was our destination. At this ultra modern institution we received injections for variole (smallpox) and cholera. On payment of a few coins (200 milliemes each) we were now immune to everything. Our inocculations were recorded in our Libyan issued 'International Certificates of Vaccination' affixed with little red postage stamps of Tripoli Castle. I was confused that they were marked Royaume de Libye (Kingdom of Libya), I felt sure that the army were in charge. On the souvenir stalls in the main street I had purchased a pair of nail clippers. The choice was between one embellished with a green and gold bird sitting on a branch and one with a picture of an army type. I had chosen the bird though I noticed amongst the souvenirs for sale were other pictures of this man. Finding one with his name written I identified him as Colonel Muammar Quadafi. Perhaps it was his idea to ban alcohol and take down the English street signs.

A Libyan friend who called himself Rok worried about us. Totally committed to our welfare and safety he took every opportunity to please us.

'How can we repay you?' I once asked him.

'A postcard. Send me a postcard, that's all I want from you,' he answered true to his name.

Working in oil he had come to Tripoli for a break and was set on looking after us. One evening he suggested that we all went to the cinema. A British film was showing, 'Kelly's Heroes', no buff of war films I agreed all the same. A bizarre experience for the film was dubbed in Arabic with English subtitles.

Intent that we should stay in a hotel at his expense he had his work cut to convince us. We liked the beach. We felt moderately safe and very happy there. He was less sure. To avoid causing offence we agreed to his proposal but we didn't enjoy the experience. I yearned for the open sky, the sound of the water lapping. We stayed at the hotel but the one night.

We loved Tripoli, the weather, the people, the affluence and the location, all good reasons to stay and settle down. Perhaps we would have stayed, had the compulsion to travel to India not been with us. From what we learnt the population related to the gross income left workers incredibly rich. The problem lay in what to spend the money on. Libyans holidayed in resorts such as Tunis and Beirut by all accounts. The national economy seemed very prosperous and new buildings and other developments flourished. After years of foreign rule the Libyans now called the shots. The only dissenting voice to be heard against the new administration spoke uneasily of the alcohol situation. The Italian style nightclubs of Giorgimpopoli [later renamed Gargaresh] only sold soft drinks. Mis-heard I had thought the area to be called Gingerpopoli, in the light of the prohibition this would have been an appropriate name.