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At left is a photograph of my good self taken by Corporal Fleming near to where the SS Indian Queen was docked whilst in Alexandria.20th February, Alexandria, Egypt 0800 hours
Not much to report. Pleasant voyage so far with no hitches. Docked at Alexandria for some supplies and the Major-General allowed us onshore leave for half a day. Corporal Fleming said he knew of a local coffee-house where there were local women who perform what is called 'bellydancing', and will do so for foreigners privately for a fee.
When we arrived at Cafe Masmoudi the owner, Abdul, greeted Corporal Fleming like a prodigal son returning to the fold. We were plied with hookahs and houmous and hot lemon tea, and then came the 'dessert'. We would be allowed to observe two fine 'ghawazee' dancers who had been brought in from the desert to perform for some local Egyptian bureaucrats. We were told to wait in a room at the back of the cafe until summoned. When the time came we were ushered into a small enclave at the back of a larger room that was filled with low divans and cushions laid around the walls.
A small group of musicians were seated on one side, and on the other, fortunately facing away from us, were the men whom we considered to be the Egyptian government officials who were paying for this privilege. The seated drummer began a slow and hypnotic rhythm. From behind a curtain hanging near one entrance to the room could be heard the jangling of tiny bells. Then, all at once, the curtain was drawn aside and two women, one slim and relatively young, the other, older, rounder and quite voluptuous, appeared and moved slowly to the beat stepping first one way, then the other. Their hips would shake on the deeper notes of the drum and then abruptly jerk to one side perfectly in time to the higher pitch notes. These movements had an alluring sensuality to them that I had not ever experienced in any form of dance I had viewed or participated in before. I was mesmerised and it was not until Corporal Fleming whispered that perhaps I should close my mouth to stop flies from entering that I fully realised this.
Just then the oud and flute players joined in and the dance changed rhythm and began to quicken. The two ghawazee were now turning and 'shimmying', as Fleming told me later, at a faster pace, occasionally bending backwards and using their veils as articulately as ladies of society use their fans. Though fully clothed in brightly coloured, shimmering costume that fell to just above their feet, these women projected a strength and sensuousness that broke the bonds of the cloth and had me feeling rather weak in the knees, even though I was fully seated at the time. The swirls of fine materials and heady scents of smoke and incense, and whatever exotic perfume the women wore that mixed with their inherent tribal odours, took their toll on my senses and sent me into a dream-like state. I was at the point of feeling impelled to get up and join them in their wild dance as the music became faster and their spinning more pronounced, when the music suddenly ceased and the dance ended. Corporal Fleming had noticed the effect the dancing had on me and was paused in motion, reaching out to stop my rising to my feet. He suggested that we should retire to the outer cafe for a breath of fresh air and a hot lemon tea. At first I demurred, wanting to see more of this exotic world I was experiencing, but then rationality hit me and I followed him back into the cafe.
My only desire had become that of dallying long hours, seduced by the ghawazees' 'beledi' skills, and I felt heartily inclined to desert the Corps there and then and to live with these love-priestesses for eternity. But the sound of camels complaining to all in sundry as they were dragged by their trader owners through the streets outside, woke me from my daydream. They rudely reminded me of my 'marriage' to Her Majesty as an honourable defender of the British Empire.
So we bid adieu to Abdul and leaving a token for our 'viewers' privilege, part of which I hoped would go to the dancers. As we left the cafe, I felt myself descending from paradise back into the purgatory that was the stifling Alexandrian back streets we wended along, on our way back to the ship.
On the way, Corporal Fleming stopped at a local market to buy some cheap trinkets and jewellery which he claimed would come in handy for 'future bartering'. But all I could think of was the dazzling 'jewels' I had just seen in the back room of Cafe Masmoudi.
