THE ARAB OMNIBUS

Te Awamutu Courier, Volume 64, Issue 4533, 6 February 1942, Page 7

THE ARAB OMNIBUS

A FATALISTIC TIME-TABLE IN THE LAND OF THE BEDOUINS (By A.F.K.) There was nothing else for it—l would have to travel back to camp in the Arab bus. As a means of studying Arab life travelling on one of their buses may be excellent; as a conveyance I can think of nothing more unpleasant. The finding of the bus terminus is the first of the trials to be endured by “ diggers ” returning to camp, for it is hidden among a labyrinth of lanes in the old city of Jaffa, and to one inexperienced traveller only the good offices of a wahlled made arrival there possible. Meeting one, I stated my quest. “ Bus ? ” he echoed. “ This way ” —and off he went. We find the bus station among a conglomeration of stalls, butchers’ shops, and bazaars and their smells. I purchase a ticket and inquire the time of the bus’ departure, and am told, “ Four o’clock.” Arabs from all southern Palestine are grouped round the yard waiting and mingling with hangers-on and loungers. Lemonade and sweetmeat sellers do a brisk trade. A wahlled from the coffee shop round the corner threads his way among the crowd selling meals and coffee. A bootblack eyes my shoes most suggestively. Some family groups produce their own eatables from voluminous bundles. BEDOUIN BEAUTY Aloof, a Bedouin and his young wife admire their baby. After their black tents and desert wastes, the stone buildings and town life are strange to them. She is weighed down with bizarre silver jewellery and coins, a Marie Theresa dollar predominating, possibly from Abyssinia. Around her are countless bundles presents for her family in the south. She is happy over something; she smiles and reveals a beautiful set of white teeth that have never known dentrifice. Another animated group discusses the market prices, but not the weather, for that is Allah’s affair. In a corner an old man smokes his hooka. Here is patience personified and a symbol of all Arab travellers. The bus will come when Allah wills it. The time is ten minutes past four, and still no sign of the bus. Another Australian joins me, and tells me that he has missed the official bus back to his camp. One must have an excuse for travelling on the Arab bus. •• She leaves at a quarter past,” he tells me, knowingly. I ask the ticket seller when the bus will be leaving. He calmly replies; “ Four-thirty.” He

merely shrugs his shoulders as I abuse him. “ When the bus comes, then she will go again,” he replies, sweetly. At four-thirty the bus does arrive. We Australians, thinking to steal a march on the jostling Arabs, jump in. But even now we are not to be on our way. Petrol has to be taken aboard. We settle down in the back seat, only to be chased out again as the driver commences to hose the bus inside and out. The joke is on us. The Arabs laugh at our discomfiture. SMELLS OF ARABIA At last we pile in again. There is no maximum number of passengers for these buses. Passengers are everywhere, as many standing as sitting. Their mysterious bundles fill every inch of space. Two sheep are tied down to the luggage rack on top, to-

gether with fruit, fowls, and general market produce. The smell of the animals mingles with the odour of unwashed humans, and we have the smells of Arabia. Just as we are sure we are about to go the ticket checker wades among us; there is a rustling of heavy cloaks and a groping among legs and feet for errant tickets; an argument over a fare and a squeal as the conductor treads on a passenger’s toes. Off we go with a rattle and a bump, the load piled on top scarcely clearing the arched gateway.

With enviable abandon the driver swings the bus out into the main road. Pedestrians scatter before us. We lurch, swerve, and miss market stalls, cabs, and oncoming traffic by inches. Only we battle-scarred Australians" are concerned at the narrow escapes. An English-speaking Arab turns to us and says, pointing to the

driver: “He is not afraid. He trusts in Allah.”

Six time my ticket was checked and punched; it had the appearance of a rifle-range target when I reached my journey’s end. Allah may vouch for the driver, but the bus company seems to be of the opinion that the passengers and their fares are the business of their accountant and his ticketcheckers.