The old man and his grandson were seated on the back porch, a jug of cold lemonade and two glasses on the table. The boy was sitting right next to his grandfather, and they were going through an old cigar box of pocket knives that the grandfather had accumulated in his travels. Several were already laid out on the table, a stockman, an old sodbuster, some various jackknives.
"What's this one, grandpa?" the boy asked as he reached in the box and took out an old folding knife. It had a stamped sheet metal hande of one piece of sheet metal folded over. The boy pulled out the blade and saw a strange shaped blade. The old man gently took it from the boy and looked at it.
"Why that's an old knife I got a very long time ago, long before your grandma and me ever met. It's called a Douk-Douk, and I got it from an old Arab I met when they sent us down from Germany to do some work at Wheelus Air Force base. I carried that knife for a while, and it was a good knife. Heck, I forgot it was in there. Maybe I'll just stick it in my pocket again."
"How'd ya get a knife from an Arab, grandpa? Did you have to kill him?"the boy asked.
Öh no, no pup! I met him when I stopped for something to eat and he was the owner of a little cafe. In fact, we became friends, and we played checkers. "
"You never told me about that. I want to hear this one."
"Well pup, it was when they needed some engineers down at the old Wheelus air force base, so they sent some of us from Germany down on TDY to do some work...
Libya, 1966.
The old Arab sat on a stool just inside the doorway of the cafe. He looked out at the world with almost black eyes set in a creased face weathered by a life of sun and wind. His beard was gray with the passage of many years. Outside, the brutal midday desert sun beat down, and all life seemed to cease. People were staying inside at the noon of day, and the old man was very surprised to see a small dust trail in the distance, getting closer and making a slight buzzing noise. When it finally got close the old man could see a battered old Vespa motorscooter that slowed and pulled to a stop at the fountain in the small square in front of his cafe. The motorscooter was faded by the sun, and coated with dust so that it looked like it was made of the redish dust of the desert.
A young man got off the machine, and walked over to the fountain, slowly unwrapping the shemagh from around his head. The old Arab was even more surprised to see that the young man was either European or American, maybe from the Air Base to the north. He didn't look to be more than mid twentys in age, and seemed to know how to dress for the desert. In addition to the shemagh, he wore the long loose white cotton shirt sold in the markets, and loose cotton pants', and woven leather sandels. He was in fact, dressed just like the younger Arabic men who shunned the traditional garb. Taking off the sunglasses, he splashed water over his head and face, then straitened up an looked around as he replaced the sunglasses against the glare of the white washed buildings. Seeing the old man sitting just inside the door, he spoke.
"Hello, can I get something to eat here?"he asked in a very American accent.
The old Arab rose and waved him over.
"Yes, by all means Sayyd! Please, come and enter. Get out of the noonday sun. I am Mustaffa, and I am the owner of this most humble establishment"
Inside the cafe, it was like another world. The thick plastered over mud walls kept out the heat, so it was cool and shaded inside. Even after taking off the sunglasses, the young American had to pause to let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside. It was a small shaby cafe, with a few tables occupied by Arab men drinking tea or eating. Some were even playing checkers. Some of the floor tiles were broken, and there was a down at the heels feel to the place.
"Come, Sayyd,"said the old man using the Arabic term of sir for respect, "Come and sit, and have something. We don't get many strangers here, they all take the main road to the coast. In fact, I am rather surprised to see you here. You are air force, yes?"
"Well no, I'm army. We're just here for a few months doing some work at the air base. I borrowed the Vespa from a worker at the base to just explore around some. I like to see the country where ever I go."
The old man seated the young serviceman at a small table and brought tea.
The young serviceman looked over at a table where a man was eating.
"That looks good. I'll try it."he said.
"Äh, the roast lamb. An exellent choice, it is freshly butchered."
The meal was brought, and the young man went to eat, but saw there was no knife. Not intending to go hungry, the young man took out a large folding knife and cut off a piece of the roast lamb and wrapped it up in some of the flat bread that was on the plate. The old man had stood off to the side, watching him, and he studied the knife in the young man's hand. A large single blade knife with a wood handle of beautiful grain, it had caught the old Arab's eye.
"That's a very nice knife, young sir!" said the old Arab, making conversation.
"Well, I have this thing about collecting knives. Since I was in Germany, I figured I'd buy a knife as a memento of the trip. Kind of like collecting post cards of where I've been."
He saw how the old man admired it, and he held it out to him. The old man took the knife and looked it over with care, nodding his head in approval.
"Very nice sir! We don't see many examples of fine German cutlery out here, but we do have some knives from France. I have used this one for many things, and it cuts well. It is a Douk-Douk." said the old Arab as he reached into his burnoose and took out a large single blade knife with a metal handle. The young serviceman took the knife from the extended hand of the old man and looked it over. The blade was thin and sharp, and curved up like something out of the tales of the Arabian nights. Swirling figuring decorated the blade.
The two men sat there and admired the knives, talked of many things and a friendship began to take root. The service man saw how the old Arab admired the German Herter sodbuster that he had spent time hand rubbing a linseed oil finish on. An idea came into his mind.
"Tell ya what, Mustaffa. You keep the Herter, and trade me your Douk-Douk. I can get another Herter when we go back to Germany in a month or so, but the Douk-Douk will make a nice memento of my time here. Memories of new friends and good roast lamb. What do you say?"
The old Arab was touched. He ran his fingers over the wood handle of the German knife. The young soldier had sanded, buffed and oil rubbed it into a beautiful sheen that made the grain of the dark walnut stand out.
"Let it be so. But I will accept no payment of the meal, that is my final word. Let us drink tea and have a game of checkers. No, I will hear no argument.
So the two men, one young, and one old, sat and played checkers, drank tea, and the sun passed it's zenith. Later in the day the young soldier went to leave, and the old Arab went outside and watched him expertly don the shemagh and kick the Vespa into life. On the third kick it sputtered into life, popping and putting out a small cloud of blue smoke. Mustaffa laid a hand on the soldiers shoulder.
"Go with Allah my young friend! Come back again."
They shook hands and the soldier went off on the battered old Vespa, and Mustaffa watched him disappear in the distance. He took out his new German made knife with the polished walnut handle and ran his fingers over the smooth wood.
" Allah, please watch over him." the old man said quietly, "I don't trust that manner of transport he's riding."
"What's this one, grandpa?" the boy asked as he reached in the box and took out an old folding knife. It had a stamped sheet metal hande of one piece of sheet metal folded over. The boy pulled out the blade and saw a strange shaped blade. The old man gently took it from the boy and looked at it.
"Why that's an old knife I got a very long time ago, long before your grandma and me ever met. It's called a Douk-Douk, and I got it from an old Arab I met when they sent us down from Germany to do some work at Wheelus Air Force base. I carried that knife for a while, and it was a good knife. Heck, I forgot it was in there. Maybe I'll just stick it in my pocket again."
"How'd ya get a knife from an Arab, grandpa? Did you have to kill him?"the boy asked.
Öh no, no pup! I met him when I stopped for something to eat and he was the owner of a little cafe. In fact, we became friends, and we played checkers. "
"You never told me about that. I want to hear this one."
"Well pup, it was when they needed some engineers down at the old Wheelus air force base, so they sent some of us from Germany down on TDY to do some work...
Libya, 1966.
The old Arab sat on a stool just inside the doorway of the cafe. He looked out at the world with almost black eyes set in a creased face weathered by a life of sun and wind. His beard was gray with the passage of many years. Outside, the brutal midday desert sun beat down, and all life seemed to cease. People were staying inside at the noon of day, and the old man was very surprised to see a small dust trail in the distance, getting closer and making a slight buzzing noise. When it finally got close the old man could see a battered old Vespa motorscooter that slowed and pulled to a stop at the fountain in the small square in front of his cafe. The motorscooter was faded by the sun, and coated with dust so that it looked like it was made of the redish dust of the desert.
A young man got off the machine, and walked over to the fountain, slowly unwrapping the shemagh from around his head. The old Arab was even more surprised to see that the young man was either European or American, maybe from the Air Base to the north. He didn't look to be more than mid twentys in age, and seemed to know how to dress for the desert. In addition to the shemagh, he wore the long loose white cotton shirt sold in the markets, and loose cotton pants', and woven leather sandels. He was in fact, dressed just like the younger Arabic men who shunned the traditional garb. Taking off the sunglasses, he splashed water over his head and face, then straitened up an looked around as he replaced the sunglasses against the glare of the white washed buildings. Seeing the old man sitting just inside the door, he spoke.
"Hello, can I get something to eat here?"he asked in a very American accent.
The old Arab rose and waved him over.
"Yes, by all means Sayyd! Please, come and enter. Get out of the noonday sun. I am Mustaffa, and I am the owner of this most humble establishment"
Inside the cafe, it was like another world. The thick plastered over mud walls kept out the heat, so it was cool and shaded inside. Even after taking off the sunglasses, the young American had to pause to let his eyes adjust to the dim light inside. It was a small shaby cafe, with a few tables occupied by Arab men drinking tea or eating. Some were even playing checkers. Some of the floor tiles were broken, and there was a down at the heels feel to the place.
"Come, Sayyd,"said the old man using the Arabic term of sir for respect, "Come and sit, and have something. We don't get many strangers here, they all take the main road to the coast. In fact, I am rather surprised to see you here. You are air force, yes?"
"Well no, I'm army. We're just here for a few months doing some work at the air base. I borrowed the Vespa from a worker at the base to just explore around some. I like to see the country where ever I go."
The old man seated the young serviceman at a small table and brought tea.
The young serviceman looked over at a table where a man was eating.
"That looks good. I'll try it."he said.
"Äh, the roast lamb. An exellent choice, it is freshly butchered."
The meal was brought, and the young man went to eat, but saw there was no knife. Not intending to go hungry, the young man took out a large folding knife and cut off a piece of the roast lamb and wrapped it up in some of the flat bread that was on the plate. The old man had stood off to the side, watching him, and he studied the knife in the young man's hand. A large single blade knife with a wood handle of beautiful grain, it had caught the old Arab's eye.
"That's a very nice knife, young sir!" said the old Arab, making conversation.
"Well, I have this thing about collecting knives. Since I was in Germany, I figured I'd buy a knife as a memento of the trip. Kind of like collecting post cards of where I've been."
He saw how the old man admired it, and he held it out to him. The old man took the knife and looked it over with care, nodding his head in approval.
"Very nice sir! We don't see many examples of fine German cutlery out here, but we do have some knives from France. I have used this one for many things, and it cuts well. It is a Douk-Douk." said the old Arab as he reached into his burnoose and took out a large single blade knife with a metal handle. The young serviceman took the knife from the extended hand of the old man and looked it over. The blade was thin and sharp, and curved up like something out of the tales of the Arabian nights. Swirling figuring decorated the blade.
The two men sat there and admired the knives, talked of many things and a friendship began to take root. The service man saw how the old Arab admired the German Herter sodbuster that he had spent time hand rubbing a linseed oil finish on. An idea came into his mind.
"Tell ya what, Mustaffa. You keep the Herter, and trade me your Douk-Douk. I can get another Herter when we go back to Germany in a month or so, but the Douk-Douk will make a nice memento of my time here. Memories of new friends and good roast lamb. What do you say?"
The old Arab was touched. He ran his fingers over the wood handle of the German knife. The young soldier had sanded, buffed and oil rubbed it into a beautiful sheen that made the grain of the dark walnut stand out.
"Let it be so. But I will accept no payment of the meal, that is my final word. Let us drink tea and have a game of checkers. No, I will hear no argument.
So the two men, one young, and one old, sat and played checkers, drank tea, and the sun passed it's zenith. Later in the day the young soldier went to leave, and the old Arab went outside and watched him expertly don the shemagh and kick the Vespa into life. On the third kick it sputtered into life, popping and putting out a small cloud of blue smoke. Mustaffa laid a hand on the soldiers shoulder.
"Go with Allah my young friend! Come back again."
They shook hands and the soldier went off on the battered old Vespa, and Mustaffa watched him disappear in the distance. He took out his new German made knife with the polished walnut handle and ran his fingers over the smooth wood.
" Allah, please watch over him." the old man said quietly, "I don't trust that manner of transport he's riding."
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