It was 7.30 in the evening of my twenty-eighth birthday, and I was sitting outside a bar on Tripoli's Sharia Istiklal (Independence Street) with a half-litre of ice-cold Amstel in front of me, watching the young Italian girls walking up and down arm in arm in twos and threes on their regular evening passeggiata, chattering away to each other and eyeing the boys out of the corners of their eyes. Four years had passed since the events that I described in my submission 'Eastern Idyll' and the memory of my first love, Jenn, had slowly faded from the forefront of my every waking moment as I gradually came to terms with the realisation that I had lost her for ever and would have to get on with my life. During that time I had completed my term of service with the RAF, obtained both British and American commercial pilot licences and moved out to Libya, where I was flying small bush planes deep into the Sahara Desert in support of the oil exploration industry, earning an income well in excess of that I had been receiving as an RAF pilot. And getting in a lot more very enjoyable flying too! The government of King Idris welcomed Westerners, making it a popular part of the world for expatriates in which to both work and play.
One of the guys from the Tripoli Sailing Cub stopped by my table to enquire about my plans for the evening, and I confirmed that I would be down there later to treat everyone to a birthday drink. Sitting at the next table were a couple of attractive girls who looked somewhere about my age, and when they heard me speaking English one of them leaned across to ask me if I knew Tripoli. It turned out that they were cabin crew on an executive jet that had arrived at Idris airport from the UK that afternoon and was stopping over for a few days before continuing on to Egypt. It was the first time they had ever been to Tripoli, and they were soon asking my advice about places to go sight-seeing during the day and the availability of restaurants and night clubs in the evenings. Well, it seemed natural for me to invite them to join me as my guests at the Club so I did just that, to the great delight of the predominantly male members propping up the bar there.
OK, so now it's description time, and it hardly takes me to point out that organisations who can afford to hire private jets for their executives are not likely to be repeat customers if reports get back to head office of flight attendants with big boobs, short skirts, legs up to their armpits and attitudes to match. These two, Ellen and Kate, were both brunettes, 5ft 4 or so in height - ideal in a cabin that lacks the headroom of a large airliner - with figures that were definitely feminine but not in your face. Trim and slim might be a good way of putting it and I could easily imagine the two of them looking extremely smart and capable in uniform. Tonight, however, they were wearing casual slacks and light blouses, and both of them looked quite delicious.
After a while someone suggested moving on from the Sailing Club to the night club in the basement of the Uaddan, the top hotel in town, and it didn't surprise me when the girls said it was where they were staying. Later in the evening I was enjoying a slow, smoochy dance with Kate – and I was getting the distinct impression that she was enjoying it too - when she asked me what I was doing next day. I told her that I was scheduled to take a Beaver down to Esso-Libya's concession 6 in a couple of days time but till then I was at their service and would they like me to show them around, and what sort of sight-seeing did they fancy? Kate wrinkled up her nose and said Ellen had told her that she might be busy elsewhere the next day, and by the look of her, moving slowly around the floor enveloped in the arms of a tool-pusher from one of the drilling rigs, I guessed she could be right. Kate had heard of the Roman ruins at Sabratha and wanted to have a look at them, and I also suggested that Tripoli Castle would be well worth a visit. She liked dinghy sailing and did quite a bit back home, and was there any chance of me taking her out while she was in Tripoli? I said that we might be able to fit some of that in as well.
Eventually, at two in the morning, she said that it had been a long day, she was totally bushed and it was time for bed. Would I pick her up later, say around 11am as she needed a late lie-in and then would have to check in with her captain up at the airport during the morning? I escorted her to the lift and deliberately didn't even try for a kiss. She hesitated a second, grinned at me and then the lift doors closed behind her.
Eleven o'clock and Kate met me in the foyer of the Uaddan wearing sandals, short shorts with turned up cuffs at the top of smooth brown legs and a loose sleeveless top, knotted under her breasts and displaying a very acceptable amount of cleavage. I said she looked good enough to eat and she thanked me by reaching up – I am a good six foot tall – and kissing me on the cheek. I decided that this was a great start to the day! We jumped into my battered Fiat 1100, drove out through the suburbs to the west of Tripoli and picked up the coast road towards Sabratha. During the drive she told me that she was engaged to Chuck, an American guy whom she was planning to marry at the end of the year. Till that date, she said, she was free as a bird, and although the word 'available' was not actually spoken, the inference was very definitely hanging in the air. She asked about girl friends, and I told her about Jenn. She put a warm hand on my bare thigh, said what a lovely but sad story, and assured me that someone else would surely come along for me one day.
Arriving at the site we bought some small snacks and cold soft drinks from the little refreshment shack just inside the entrance and had a quick look at the maps in the museum to get our bearings. Then it was out into the bright sunshine and a leisurely walk round three thousand years of history. She couldn't get her head round the Roman dates on the inscriptions so I had to explain how to add up the M's and the D's and the C's and told her that it was because the Romans had no symbol for zero that the Western world eventually turned to Arabic numerals. She had brought her camera with her to take shots of the site, and from time to time asked other tourists walking round the area to take some of the two of us together. Just for the record, she said!
Eventually we arrived at the far end of the site facing onto the sea and sat down on the sand at the top of the beach, looking out over the flat calm of the Mediterranean. Although the harbour was long since gone, it was easy to visualise Roman and Phoenician and Egyptian ships coming and going to and from the busy town all those long centuries ago, and I said that John Masefield had phrased it very well in the first verse of his poem 'Cargoes'.
Quinquireme of Nineveh from distant Ophir
Rowing home to haven in sunny Palestine,
With a cargo of ivory,
And apes and peacocks,
Sandalwood, cedarwood, and sweet white wine.
